World Premier WWII Play, Vitriol, at Odd Duck Studios

In January of 2011 the up-and-coming Handwritten Productions staged a reading of the new play Vitriol, by their own Jake Sherman, at Odd Duck. Six months later (to the day, incidentally) the work returned to the same stage in full form, fleshed out and in fighting condition, and is now enjoying a heck of a run.

Vitriol depicts the true story of the newsmen of the Munich Post, which campaigned fiercely against Adolf Hitler during his ascent to power in the 1920s and '30s. It's a story about journalists risking everything in the defense of honesty, human dignity and the integrity of man and the presses.

The script itself is very muscular. It includes only details and events essential to the narrative, dealing only with the meat and potatoes of the drama, rarely straying for the sake of style or padding or tangential musing. The result is a play (a somewhat lengthy play at over two hours) in constant motion, someone always trying to accomplish something or defend something or achieve something. It's out of praise I state that Vitriol is the most active play I've seen in some time.

In addition to being a muscular story it's a masculine story, with a cast comprised entirely of men. Men who fight and drink and smoke and threaten and defy and idealize and seethe, dripping with gumption and bravado.

Now imagine the two humps of a bactrian camel. This shape represents the narrative structure of the play, two distinct arcs, one arc per act. While naturally each act allows insight into the other, and while it's a pleasure to see dynamic characters from so many angles over time, my first thought at intermission was, "We're about to start again from a standstill." A compelling and well-written struggle had run its course with a complete and satisfying beginning, middle and end. And yes, the second act could also've been a complete play of its own, if admittedly a less engrossing one without the backstory we gleam from the front half. It can be difficult to avoid these kinds of structuring struggles when rendering real events into drama. Some great stories, after all, don't make for great plays. This story does, but with a little trouble.

Presumably in an effort to avoid the would-be narrative gridlock of a stagnant opening to the second half (it takes so much time for some stories to pick up speed, after all), the playwright seems to devise to plug in a dramatically juicy moment from deeper in the act, scrambling chronology, a convention which is established but not so liberally played with in the first hour of the play. While a probable lull is prevented, I wonder if the play would've enjoyed more brevity to run the second act chronologically. My assumption is that the writer tried this and said, "No, this way is better." I trust his judgement, he being a smart cookie with a strong dramatic instinct, but continue to suspect 'the best way' may still have been somewhat remedial.

The dialogue of Vitriol is seizing. One would hope journalists would have a knack for saying what they mean, and these do. They articulate themselves with deliberateness, listen with a staggering attention and think with patience and foresight. It strikes the ear like candy, the words chosen, the sonority of them, and most of all their meanings. The rock-solid cast does handy work with so much challenging language, as they do with challenging roles.

In addition to being a poignant epitaph for the men of the Munich Post, Vitriol is a play of ideas. This is the nectar of the production: the exploration of how and why men rise above fear or adversity to resist evil, to expand knowledge, to improve the world. The bravery of a small, local production company to capably generate and produce a play of this caliber should be affirming and encouraging. They've been rewarded with a great show, and will be rewarded with some glowing reviews. But hopefully they'll be honored by your patronage very soon, as the run ends July 23rd.

Friday and Saturday, July 22nd and 23rd, at 7:30 // Odd Duck Studio, 1214 10th Ave // Pay What You Will