My grandmother liked The Bingo, as she used to call it.
Every so often, “back in the day,” she’d walk from her lower South Side duplex across the street to St. Roman’s Parish Hall and try her luck. She didn’t win too often, but it was all good fun. She had a comfortable life with my grandfather, who worked his way up from a laborer to a manager at Wehr Steel, a name familiar to Milwaukee Repertory Theater patrons of a certain age. They remember when The Rep used to perform in the Todd Wehr Theater.
Margie (that’s pronounced Boston-style, with a hard “G”) also likes bingo. But things are different these days. Watch Laura Gordon in the final moments of The Rep’s production of Good People, and you’ll understand that this bingo is not just fun and games. As the lights dim, Gordon’s Margie waits for that next number, dauber in hand, eyes fixed in hope on a far horizon where something good might be coming her way.
A job. Or perhaps more dependable help to care for her disabled daughter. Or a lucky number that could help pay for the next month’s rent. But Gordon’s look, her performance—and The Rep’s beautifully wrought production of David Lindsay-Abaire’s timely play—is a poignant reminder of the new realities of 21st-century America—a world in which luck and chance play all-too-important a role in the day-to-day survival of millions.
Lindsay-Abaire grew up in working class South Boston, and Good People captures a piece of that world with clear eyes and lots of heart. It’s kitchen-sink realism that’s infused with spirit and humor, and a savvy sense of the little fences that separate Margie and her friends from life among the more well-heeled. And as Lindsay-Abaire brilliantly shows, these fences are not simply about gross income or rent controls. Our “classless” society is rife with codes and buzz-words, little badges of privilege and entitlement that are held close like a security blanket, and unconsciously deployed when the time is right.
After laying out the polarities of these worlds in Act One, Lindsay-Abaire illustrates them slyly in the deftly constructed scene that opens Act Two. Margie shows up for a party at the suburban home of a childhood friend, Mike, a doctor who has “escaped” Southie, whose friends might be able to offer her a job. There is no party, but she is invited to stay for a while, and the small talk reveals that she is separated from her friend by more than a long ride on “The T.”
“How’s the wine?” asks Mike. And Margie snaps back, “How would I know?”
Or this exchange with Mike and his wife, Kate:
KATE: …he makes himself to be this Upton Sinclair character.
MARGARET: I don’t know that that means….
MIKE: Kate teaches literature.
MARGARET: Oh, wow.
MIKE: Novels and …
MARGARET: Yeah, I know what literature is.
KATE: I teach at BU.
MARGARET: Harvard wasn’t interested?
The scene works so well because Lindsay-Abaire doesn’t demonize any of these characters, something director Kate Buckley and her actors understand. Gordon’s Margie is spirited and generally good-humored. Mike and Kate are gracious. So instead of rooting for one or the other—political affiliations ablaze—we enter in to a world that is oddly familiar, but cast into high relief. Of course, the divisions—and Margie’s desperation—eventually deepen the rift and raise the stakes. By the end of the play, Lindsay-Abaire, along with Buckley and her fine ensemble cast—have met a formidable challenge: help us see ourselves—and those whose lives we unconsciously shape—with open eyes and a fresh perspective.
