By Joe Straw
John Mese has a southern drawl and it’s noticeable when one speaks directly to him. On stage it’s slightly different apart from a couple of sentences – “He said sumptin to me.” and “Idonknowwhy” a phrase which comes out as a one-word transfer of thoughts rather than four separate words and, one supposes, a trace of Cajun in his Baton Rouge accent. Naytheless, it is delightful and one more reason for venturing out on this Friday night.
Without going into too much detail, everyone loves a comeback story, the anticipation leading up to the moment when triumph overcomes adversity, and ends in the final resolve, the curtain call gathering with friends and family.
Mese is dedicated master craftsman and a physically gifted actor. In fashionable southern charm, Mese entered the theatre and addressed the fourth wall (the audience). He shaded his eyes from the light, appreciatively took stock of the sold-out house, drew a rectangle, and took an imaginary photo. And in a rarity, especially in Hollywood, he thanked everyone for coming and then started the show.
The one thing that leads home.
The stage at the Whitefire Theatre is sparsely set, a chair, a desk, and a flask of water. The work (or pleasure if you prefer) is to transform this empty darkened space into his home first in Los Angeles and then Baton Rouge. And then subsequently filling that space with the engrained images of those that were significantly loved and the ones that made all the difference.
His vision starts in Los Angeles and slowly moves back in time to Baton Rouge remembering his dad and his family life, his inescapable journey, brought out from the wings if you will - to the place he now calls home.
And as the years passed; he found success in Hollywood and finally settles into a family life culminating in the moment alone on stage here tonight.
In Los Angeles, Mese paints the picture of a 1934 Philco radio cabinet, now weathered by time and space, the one rather large item he squeezed into his car on the journey here, a solid weight, an anchor of remembrances, and one that reminds him of his father and more importantly, home.
There are three things that ring a dramatic truth in this one-man play. The first is the Philco radio cabinet, gutted now, but merriments from the south, and an object so loved that it plays a significant part in his journey.
The second is his father’s sailboats, they got bigger as he got older, possibly a metaphor of the incremental progression of time, growing up, and finally finishing, when sadly, all things must pass.
The third are the memories sometimes filled with obstinate gestures of youthful indiscretions. The ravages from non-saintly pursuits that could have drastically changed his career goals. And the subtle ways his father, a renowned town dentist, did help in the unimaginable ways he showed his love.
This is a tearful love story, lessons of unabashed love, of being a father, of doing fatherly things, and having a father who was willing to go the extra mile for his son.
The night was filled with emotional moments dedicated to the power of his words and movement. There’s enough here to satiate the night absorbing those moments to one’s own life experiences. And, finally, one more reason to go to all the small theatres that Los Angeles has to offer.
There may be more to add, a little more, if one must supply notes to this grand occasion. The first is a metaphorical dash of color against the wall of this black box. Baton Rouge needs that addition as it relates to his father.
The second is Jená and how that relationship plays deeply with his father. We move away from the father as the story moves away in another direction. The day, at the door ponderously ajar, in his underwear, needs an emotional jolt that pulls his father in closer, defines the moment, and makes the relationship that much stronger.
The sincerity of the play rings a dramatic truth, displayed by a great big hug on stage, that you are the man now, the father now, all while affectionately remembering the father who loved you without cause along the way.
