Back in the early 90s, when grunge was making waves and the internet was still a novelty, I found myself immersed in the vibrant yet demanding world of the Santa Rosa Repertory Theater in California. As a stage manager juggling multiple productions that summer, my days were a blur of rehearsals, set changes, and the constant hum of creative energy. Amidst this whirlwind, there was one production that, although I wasn't directly involved with, left an indelible mark on me: Tennessee Williams' The Night of the Iguana.
The theater had decided to stage the play in an intimate setting, transforming the stage into a dilapidated Mexican hotel perched on the edge of the jungle and the sea. The air was thick with humidity—thanks to some clever stage effects—and the sounds of distant thunder and exotic wildlife enveloped the audience, pulling us into the world Williams so masterfully crafted.
At first glance, the play seemed slow and moody, a departure from the more fast-paced productions I was managing (Annie Get a Your Gun and The Three Musketeers). But as I watched from the wings during my scarce free moments, I became increasingly fascinated by the layers of complexity woven into the narrative. The characters were all, in their own ways, ensnared—much like the iguana tied up beneath the veranda—by their pasts, their desires, and their quest for redemption.
Isolation was a palpable force in the play. The hotel's remote location in Mexico was not just a backdrop but a character in itself. It served as a crucible, intensifying the interactions between the characters and stripping them down to their rawest selves. The seclusion forced them to confront their inner demons without the distractions of the outside world. I remember thinking how the setting amplified the sense of entrapment and vulnerability, making the audience feel just as isolated as the characters on stage.
Spirituality intertwined seamlessly with this isolation. The protagonist, Reverend T. Lawrence Shannon, is a defrocked minister grappling with his loss of faith and purpose. His spiritual crisis is mirrored by the other characters, each seeking some form of salvation. Hannah Jelkes, the itinerant artist, embodies a serene spirituality, offering a counterpoint to Shannon's turmoil. Their late-night conversations delved deep into existential themes, leaving me pondering long after the curtain fell.
Sexuality was ever-present, not just as a physical force but as a manifestation of deeper longing and a search for connection. The characters' desires often led them to moral ambiguities, blurring the lines between right and wrong. The interplay between sexuality and spirituality highlighted the complexities of the human condition—how our search for meaning can lead us down conflicting paths.
Now, some 30 years later, I look back and truly appreciate Tennessee Williams' genius in setting the play in that desolate Mexican hotel. The isolation wasn't just a physical state but a metaphor for the characters' internal exiles. By placing them in a setting removed from their usual environments, Williams stripped away the superficial layers, exposing the raw core of their humanity. The hotel's seclusion imposed a sense of isolation on the audience as well, making us introspective participants in the unfolding drama.
That summer at the Santa Rosa Repertory Theater was a turning point for me. While I was engrossed in managing other shows, The Night of the Iguana opened my eyes to the power of setting and thematic depth in storytelling. It taught me that sometimes, it's the slow and moody narratives that leave the most lasting impressions, resonating across the decades and continuing to offer new insights each time we revisit them.