Amerika, or The Disappearance (review)

In the Theatre de la Jeune Lune's adaptation of Franz Kafka's unfinished novel Der Verschollene, the function of the word "disappearance" in the title underscores why Kafka's novel is so well-suited for translation into theatre, an art that in essence appears to "disappear." First, by ridding the word Verscholleneof its sense that somebodyis missing, "disappearance" enacts both the protagonist's vanishing and the manner through which it is effected: by losing him in translation. When Karl Rossman fails to assimilate into American culture, he is relegated to its margins. Fully assimilated or not, his disappearance is demanded of him either by successfully translating into his new culture or by resisting translation and so falling through the cracks. Disappearance also signifies how "Amerika," the notion of the country that Karl formed prior to his emigration, fades from sight as he becomes disillusioned by his encounters with the real America. Still, Jeune Lune's staging, which beautifully employed films and slides to establish some of the settings, called into question which version of America we were seeing: good or bad, it might all be a projection, America disappearing behind Amerika, which in turn disappears in light of America. As soon as one thinks about which is seen, the other shows through and the initial perception vanishes in the thought of it, echoing the unstable boundaries between theatricality and reality. Jeune Lune's Amerika, or The Disappearancedeftly exploited these disappearances to reveal how America has also depended on disappearances in order to keep up appearances.

Shortened and altered by Steven Epp and Dominique Serrand from what Jeune Lune performed with the American Repertory Theatre in Boston the previous fall, the Minneapolis version of Amerikamore quickly established relationships among disappearance, assimilation, and immigrants' success in America. Almost immediately after stepping off the boat, Karl greets his Uncle Jakob—now a shipping magnate—pronouncing his uncle's name as a German would. Karl is confused by his lack of response, until his uncle sharply informs him that he is no longer "Jakob" but "Jacob," a name devoid of European inflections. As the spelling of the names implies though, the chasm between Jakob and Jacob lies not only in what we hear, but also in what we see. Jacob did not merely talk the talk, he walked the walk. Played with gleeful excess by Steven Epp, Jacob ostentatiously chewed gum, sprawled over rather than sat on chairs, and was bluntly sententious, constantly lecturing Karl that if he was to reach his uncle's level of success, "Karl" must become "Carl," which Jacob insisted could only happen if Karl's accent disappeared.

Karl's failure to master American English as fast as his uncle would have liked leads to a conundrum that defines the central problem of the play. Because Karl does not "disappear," he is kicked out of his uncle's house, eventually stripped of his identity, and pushed to the bottom of American society, which is to say, he disappears. Jeune Lune's production amplified this paradox. As the audience watched Karl slowly lose his identity, actor Nathan Keepers portrayed the character with a consistent sense of innocence and bewilderment, giving his identity a continuity that other characters lacked, which was stressed by the show's casting. While Keepers played only Karl, the other actors took on multiple roles. Granted, since Karl appeared in every scene, such casting might have been merely expedient, but it had the added effect of stabilizing Karl's identity, associated as he was with the one person who remained constant throughout the show. Within the context of the story, this immutability ultimately led to a series of misadventures that climaxed when, stripped of the clothes that held his identification papers, Karl's identity was literallytaken from him and he was coerced into serving the unscrupulous...