Playwright: Robin Soans. At: Theatre Mir at the Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs Storefront, 66 E. Randolph . Telephone: 312-742-8497, $23, $18 seniors, $15 students . Runs through: April 5. Photo by John W. Sisson, Jr.
For millenia, Bethlehem's Church of the Nativity remained an oasis of peace in the midst of one of the globe's most violently enduring battlefields. But in 2002, it became yet another site of carnage as part of the ongoing war between Palestinians and Israelis over the disputed West Bank territories. For those who sought refuge in the church while tanks gathered outside, grass soup became a sole, inadequate sustenance for close to 40 days.
That tragedy-imbued "recipe"—a few chopped blades of grass stirred into boiling water—is delivered with bitterness and understated rage toward the end of The Arab-Israeli Cookbook. Describing the starvation diet of those who sought refuge in the church, Robin Soans' quasi-docudrama finally brings the terror and complexity of one of the world's most intractable conflicts down to its horrific, everyday essence. Meals became not acts of nourishment but reminders of deprivation and death in a place where "the body of the church bell ringer was lying next to the statue of St. Jerome."
Unfortunately, that powerful distillation is an anomaly in Soans' piece. We hear a lot about food and a lot about the war—but Soans rambles in his attempts to link the two. As a result, Theatre Mir's production of The Arab Israeli Cookbook is more earnest lecturing than dramatically satisfying.
The cluttered mosaic of a story is the result of Soans conducted ( with original directors Rima Brihi and Tim Roseman ) throughout the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. The trio asked about food—the preparation and consumption of beloved, culturally significant dishes—as a way to get people to open up about far more difficult subjects.
Part of the problem lies in the sheer number of voices. A young Arab medical student exits and re-enters as a gay Australian expat, exits again and re-enters as a cook in a hummus shop. A woman who plays an Orthodox Christian in one scene shows up—in essentially the same costume—as a Jewish matron in the next. Director Rob Chambers fails to differentiate the characters cleanly, and the result is confusing.
Also hampering the proceedings are dimly lit, slo-mo background scenes. Foreground action loses power when its competing with someone coring cucumbers in the background.
There are some fine performances in the ensemble: Mark Richard and Susaan Jamshidi create a moving portrait of a bus driver whose route is a frequent target for suicide bombers and his devoted wife. Stephen Loch and Julian Martinez are utterly, humorously in synch as a gay couple engaged in an elaborate stir-fry.
But despite the cast's best efforts, The Arab-Israeli Cookbook doesn't justify its two-hour run time. When Soans finally offers a full context to the elaborate culinary discussion, it's too late and too little.