'A Raisin in the Sun' review: Court Theatre's strong cast drives classic play that's powerful, sadly topical
It’s been almost 66 years since South Side native Lorraine Hansberry’s Chicago-set “A Raisin in the Sun” debuted on Broadway, yet the simultaneously classic and groundbreaking drama shows little signs of aging. At least not at Hyde Park’s Court Theatre, where director Gabrielle Randle-Bent’s staging runs through March 9.
At once highly specific to a particular time (the 1950s) and place (a tiny, roach-infested kitchenette on Chicago’s South Side), “A Raisin in the Sun” also has a timeless, universal feel because the issues Hansberry broaches — racism chief among them — remain intractably with us.
Hansberry took the title of her play from Langston Hughes’ scalding poem of the same name, a stark stanza that renders in vivid terms the corrupting, potentially explosive consequences that result when dreams have to be deferred, over and over again. Hansberry’s play does the same.
Implicitly and overtly, she weaves a rich narrative that delves into the human cost of systemic racism. Through the Younger family, Hansberry exposes Chicago’s long history of deploying red-lining and violence to keep neighborhoods segregated.
The plot is elegantly simple: Family matriarch Lena Younger (Shanésia Davis) is recently widowed and living with her children Beneatha (Martasia Jones) and Walter Lee (Brian Keys), along with Walter Lee’s wife Ruth (Kierra Bunch) and their 11-year-old son Travis (Jeremias Darville opening night, Di’Aire Wilson at some performances). A life insurance check means they have the means to move out of the kitchenette. When Lena finds a house in the (fictional) all-white Clybourne Park neighborhood, the Youngers find themselves dealing with ominous warnings and potentially violent opposition.
There’s also opposition from Walter Lee, who rages when his plans to open a liquor store are vetoed, Lena prioritizing the house and Beneatha’s medical school tuition.
Hansberry’s words fire and crackle as the Youngers navigate their own familial clashes and those of the world at large.
Walter’s anger and casual misogyny (“Who cares about you?” he demands of Ruth at one point) infuse the stage with a sense of tension thick enough to cut with a knife. When Walter Lee bitterly recounts the daily humiliations he endures driving a limo for a rich white man, the weight of his frustration feels suffocating. It’s clear that it’s just a matter of time before his rage turns destructive.
The foil to Keys’ tempestuous Walter is Davis’ Lena, a wellspring of quiet but implacable power, grounded in faith and family. Lena suffers no fools, be they related to her or not. Her determination to carve out a better life for her family is a subtly radiant warmth that pervades the production.
As Beneatha, Jones renders the young woman’s discovery of the power in her roots with vibrance and complexity. In one especially memorable scene, Beneatha lets loose in a furiously energetic dance to a record thrumming with earthy percussion. It’s a marvelous rendering of joy, celebration and newly embraced self-determination.
If Beneatha is just finding her voice, Ruth has largely lost hers at the play’s onset. Bunch makes Ruth’s bone-deep exhaustion palpable, years of cleaning other people’s houses in addition to raising Travis and navigating Walter Lee’s mercurial temper leaving her perpetually weary. It’s tough to talk about her arc without spoilers, so suffice to say, Ruth moves from resigned despair to buoyant ebullience over the course of the action. In Bunch’s portrayal, the evolution eventually leaves Ruth as an understated beacon of perseverance.
Randle-Bent’s cast also features J. Nicole Brooks, who steals her single scene with larcenous verve. The hilariously passive-aggressive, pie-devouring neighbor Mrs. Johnson is often cut from “Raisin”; Here, she’s not just included, she’s unforgettable.
“A Raisin in the Sun” plays out in scenic designer Andrew Boyce’s near-replica of a kitchenette — one tiny bedroom, closet-sized kitchen, shared bathroom out in the hall and very little natural light. Small touches to the set speak to the Youngers’ ability to wrest beauty and dignity from ignoble surroundings: A china sugar bowl gleams on the kitchen table; a beautiful quilt is folded on the couch, a record player housed in burnished wood sparks an outbreak of dancing.
Clocking in at nearly three hours, “A Raisin in the Sun” drags at times, primarily during its prolonged, dream-like scene changes, which show the Youngers coming and going in a murky half-light. That’s a fairly minor issue. “A Raisin in the Sun” remains a foundational classic structured in the past and a piece that reflects the state of the world today.