Playwright: Steven Dietz
At: Steppenwolf, 1650 N. Halsted
Phone: ( 312 ) 335-1650; $20-$60
Runs through: Nov. 13
With the fall of Saigon in 1975 and the official withdrawal of American forces from South Vietnam, an era came to an end and the mythmaking began. The Vietnam War left an indelible mark on the United States, changing it and its frame of reference and vision. Since that April day in 1975, various artists have made the war and the events surrounding it their own: putting their own stamp on the conflict, whether they were interpreting for literature, visual art, music, cinema, or the stage.
Although there has been some powerful artistry and contemplation on what happened in Vietnam, I don't think I've seen any as powerful as what's now on stage at Steppenwolf. How appropriate that this modern-day tale about the fallout from the war should begin Steppenwolf's thirtieth season, the anniversary dovetailing perfectly with the pullout of American troops from Vietnam.
Perhaps it has taken 30 years for the American consciousness to formulate the kind of perspective required to write this play. The Last of the Boys is about damage ( and damage control ) , demonstrating how events of historical significance can change personal lives and values dramatically. The story concerns two men, friends from childhood, who both grapple with the effects the war had on their lives. Ben ( Tracy Letts ) is basically a hermit, living out his days alone in a trailer ( his plot of land is courtesy of the Superfund—a huge fund set up by the U.S. government to pay for cleaning up hazardous waste sites ) . Ben is so haunted by the war that he's in virtual isolation and this isolation has led to visions of a young soldier ( the last of the boys ) and, in a weird departure, his becoming sort of possessed by Robert McNamara, the conflicted, brilliant mind behind the war's malignant growth. His friend Jeeter ( John Judd ) has gone in an opposite direction, perhaps to avoid any responsibility he might have had for the war. He teaches humanities at a university ( and uses his veteran status to prey on coeds ) , drinks too much, follows the Rolling Stones around in an ironic effort to get them to stop, and had secretly collaborated with Ben's late father on a book about the war. But Jeeter isn't totally irresponsible: he has finally found a woman with whom he wants to settle down. Salyer ( Mariann Mayberry ) is 35 and haunted by the war, even though she is a byproduct of it ( her mother was pregnant when her young husband was drafted off to Southeast Asia, disappearing and never knowing of the existence of his child ) . Salyer's mother, Lorraine ( Amy Morton ) follows her wounded daughter around, trying to reign her in, to bring her back home, perhaps to keep her with her as a balm to her own wounds that the alcohol she freely imbibes cannot assuage.
Rick Snyder's staging of this season opener ( dedicated this year to new works ) reflects his intensity for the personal filtered through the universal. The first act of Last of the Boys is, in its languorous way, perhaps a little too careful in setting everything up: the pacing could be tightened. But the second act benefits from the careful foundation: it's shattering and its careful revelations and haunting imagery stick with you long after you leave the theater.