Los Angeles Theatre Review: War Horse

War Horse has perhaps the best opening of any play I’ve ever seen. A man stands alone on stage. As he opens an oversized storybook (the play is based on Michael Morpurgo's 1982 children's story), a light gently shines before him a few feet away, where another man, previously obscured by darkness, emerges. It’s a moment of pure myth and magic--the promise of a good yarn, and maybe a little enchantment. The story begins at an auction where Joey (our future war horse) is the center of a bidding war between two competitive brothers--Arthur (wealthy and conniving) and Ted (poor and proud). Arthur (played by Brian Keane) knows full well he is driving the price much higher than Joey’s market value. He also knows his stubborn brother will outbid him no matter the cost--in this case, the family mortgage payment. 



Ted (Todd Cerveris) brings Joey home to his exasperated wife (Angela Reed) and mesmerized son, Albert (Andrew Veenstra). The boy and horse quickly forge a friendship soon severed by war, when Ted sells Joey to the army. Albert waits agonizing years until he is old enough to enlist to begin his search for Joey. The story plays out as a standard cornball love affair between a boy and his horse--a love so all-encompassing, it nuzzles its way to the pre-sexual. One can’t help but think that once Albert meets a girl (or boy, for that matter) he likes, his first thought will be “Joey who?” The story, of course, refuses to address this possibility, and we are expected to believe these actions come from eighteen-year old Albert, though they seem more befitting of a twelve-year-old.

This is too bad, because War Horse is not without its unique pleasures. Designer Adrian Kohler's horses, wooden creations operated by no less than two to three actors at any given time (sometimes being ridden by an additional actor), are lovely. They look like ligneous skeletons but move effortlessly thanks to Toby Sedgwick's choreography. The jerking of a head, stamping of a hoof, shuttering of the neck–you swear you can almost see the muscles flexing and beast breathing. This isn’t puppetry; it’s poetry. A beautiful accomplishment, worthy of better material.  The puppetry isn’t enough to save the show.  Joey’s personality is indiscernible, neither consistently headstrong or spunky, particular or mischievous. He’s more often acted upon than acting. He barely registers consciousness for entire stretches of the play, nullifying him even as an adequate silent witness. Instead, he feels like a prop--a puppet, if you will, with a personality wooden on the inside and out--for the other character’s less-compelling stories. The flesh and blood cast does a capable job given the material. As Albert, Veenstra manages to give a solid performance, but the actor is clearly too old to really be able to sell this relationship. John Milosich provides the only solo vocal in the show; his voice is appropriately ordinary for such uninspired material. The set is barebones and includes a wall at the upper back of the stage that can best be described as a suspended monolithic, chunky scrim used to project imagery, both stills, in motion, and in between. At first, its illustrative properties are inviting, unassuming and fit in with the simplicity of its surroundings. However, quite quickly, in its quest to overcompensate for lack of physical space, the presentations become distracting and cartoonish.

This article was written by Dan Johnson, a freelance writer living in Los Angeles, who recently helped cover the Hollywood Fringe Festival for Cinesnatch.