Playwright: Brett Neveu. At: A Red Orchid Theatre, 1531 N. Wells St. Tickets: 312-943-8722; www.aredorchidtheatre.org; $25-$30. Runs through: Dec. 2
When the only two people in a gymnasium are a boxer and a trainer, and the former is paying the latter $30 an hour for the privilege, they don't usually waste time in idle chat. Fortunately, playwright Brett Neveu has endowed the avuncular Tremont "Tre" Billiford and ambitious Donell Fuseles (this is Louisiana, obviously) with the ability to swap confidences while they drill, their conversation punctuated by the smack of leather on leather and the pungent smell of fresh sweat.
Since physical movement always dominates verbal repartee, our comprehension of Neveu's trademark elliptical dialogue—in this case, liberally laced with jargon and insider references reflecting its milieu—is spotty at best, but gradually we come to learn that Tre once lost a championship match and that Donell is facing a career-making engagement that night. Act two takes us forward five years, to an uneasy reunion between mentor and pupil, both weathered by defeat and disillusionment, the younger in need of advice on how, when you're down, to get up again—and why.
Bring your hankies, all you manly-men—not just for mopping up big-boy tears, but for the testosterone fumes spurring you to jump into the ring yourself. What this tough/tender tale may lack in originality, it more than redeems in the visceral thrill engendered by live performance in a space as small as Red Orchid's alleyway storefront. Kamal Angelo Bolden (whom audiences may recall as the title character in Victory Gardens in The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity) is in top athletic form for the role of Donell, while company regular Guy Van Swearingen, a real-life ex-firefighter, lends the phlegmatic Tre a sturdy stoicism. Technical consultant Alfonso Ortiiz has instructed his actors thoroughly in the minutiae of the sweet science, while director Karen Kessler and fight designer John Tovar ascertain that text and fists tango skin-tight for every minute of the play's two 45-minute rounds.
Playgoers fearing excessive violence will be reassured to hear that even in the inevitable final showdown, when our surrogate father and son dispense with the focus-mitts to mix it with gloves on, contact-sport precision never gives way to sloppy brutality. Indeed, after viewing the range of psychological levels conveyed in this much-misunderstood activity, spectators may want to drop in on the Golden Gloves tournaments at Gordon Tech for further research.
