By Ryan Sexton
For the Murphy News Service
The second floor of the Jungle Theater on Lyndale Avenue in Minneapolis is euphemistically known as the “administrative offices,” but it is much more than that. There are no partitions for offices, no suits and ties, and no marauding company managers walking about with coffee cups and notepads. It is very simply a large “L” shaped space that happens to have desks and phones. It resembles a loft space in the Soho district of Manhattan as equally as it does a business. There is a large rectangular wooden table as its centerpiece. And it is here that one suspects the first readings of plays go on.
Around the corner is an array of posters from past productions scattered about the floor next to a sink, refrigerator, and makeshift coffee area. Diorama-like miniature set designs adorn the rows of shelves along which property tax records and financial inventory also reside. The business papers are assuredly less conspicuous, as the main features here are the drawings and paint tubes that undoubtedly are positioned in preparation for the next production.
In the corner, at the very back end, sits Bain Boehlke at his computer. He is typing with two fingers and muttering as he goes – affirmations that he has completed each step and can go on to the next. “Hi” he says without turning around. “I just have four things I got to do here…” Alternating between staring at the screen and a quick glance at his notes he says, “This is for the gala; I’ll tell you about it.” He still hasn’t turned around.
Although his office is a relatively small space, it feels quite comfortable. There is a window to the right, the sill upon which sits a rather garish, small lamp with a Moulin rouge-red, frill-laden shade. And there are four ornately decorated chairs cramped just behind his swivel chair where he types away. All but one of the chairs has a collection of scripts, books and Jungle Theater leaflets resting upon it. “I need a secretary,” he says.
Nobody in town ever asked Bain Boehlke to play the role of “Hamlet.” After more than a half-century acting and directing on Twin Cities stages, the 74 year old artistic director of the Jungle Theater never got the opportunity. Though Bain says he has no regrets, his passion for the play and the role is apparent when he speaks about it. But today, the enigmatic director is preparing for the Jungles’ upcoming production of Henry James’ “The Heiress.”
In 2009, Bain won the prestigious McKnight Foundation “Distinguished Artist” award. “It was unanimous,” said Vickie Benson of the award committee. “Bain’s Jungle Theater was one of the earliest examples of what is called ‘creative place making’ in the Twin Cities. Before he started his theater, the corner of Lyndale and Lake was dilapidated at best. It is now a thriving area of restaurants and the arts. Much of that is due to Bain.”
Underneath a black beret, his blondish hair awkwardly peeks out, covering the back of his neck. He wears a dark blazer jacket, brown slacks, and tennis shoes with black socks. From behind, he resembles Professor Irwin Corey but without the professor’s signature long coat. Bain hits “print” on the computer screen.
“Stay here,” he says as he gets up and walks across the room past the wooden table to the printer.
Professor Dan Sullivan from the University of Minnesota arrives, bringing his theater and film class in for what is a weekly visit to the Jungle. For this class session, Bain will speak to the students. “What do you want me to talk about?” he asks as he collects his printing. “Dialogue,” says Sullivan.
“Oh, I love that.” Bain returns to his desk.
While the students arrange themselves with coffee and their notebooks, Mary Shabatura has also arrived. She is working with Bain as a graphics expert, transferring his vision of the set design for the summer production of “The Heiress” onto a computer software program called CAD.
Bain shuffles through a collection of hand-drawn designs, not unlike those Howard Roark might have scribbled in “The Fountainhead,” and places them in proximity for the two to work. He also has a series of color photos of what he envisions the set to look like.
“This is a Georgian living room,” he says. “I got them off the Internet. You can get anything off the Internet…Oh…Margo? Let’s get that electrician to come over.”
Margo Gisselman is the chief operating officer at the Jungle. She is 63 and a firebrand fundraiser. Her reputation in town is that of a stellar, behind-the-scenes operative in the theater, and has been for years. She has worked with Bain for a decade.
“Bain has a creative passion for this work,” Gisselman says. “He is good at it because he never gets tired of it. This is a non-profit organization. Everything we do here is by choice.”
At this moment her concern is to find out from Bain exactly why the electrician that suddenly popped into his head is needed, and for what task.
Shabatura and Bain briefly discuss his ideas for the work to be done that day. He then picks up his coffee mug and steps over to the big wooden table where the students await. He now holds court.
“Theater belongs to the public,” he begins. “An audience can see something worthy when they come. They can be taken on a journey ancient and new at the same time. The Jungle mixes classic works with contemporary plays. These contain great themes and discourse over the years of humankind. Squirrels don’t do that; fish don’t do that. But we do. It’s about the exploration of the collective conscience of the community. “
Sullivan’s students are now exclusively engaged; this is not their average school field trip. A few have abandoned their notebooks for the visual accompanying the audible.
“There is a certain chauvinism in many that the cultures preceding us are less than ours. Theater affords us the opportunity to look with equal energy on the vast arc of human judgment, so that we know firsthand the differences in our community.”
As Bain talks, it is apparent that Professor Sullivan’s desire for a discussion on “dialogue” has been dispensed with.
“Language is the architect of the soul; we take it for granted. Understanding this are the subtleties and nuances of the theater. Americans in particular are in the wilderness about expressing the experience of the living.” Bain glances at the professor and says, “Your hair is particularly charming today.”
A student poses a question about a recent Jungle production that was blasted by the critics. He wonders whether Bain regrets even doing the play.
“I have no regrets,” he says. “After all, it really doesn’t exist except in memories, does it?”
Another student queries whether he takes reviews personally. “I take them all personally,” Bain says without hesitation. “That’s the deal. A good review is a sigh of relief, it’s not encouragement. Bad reviews are painful; the pen is mightier than the sword as they say. But critics must have the hardest job on the planet. They have to go see all these terrible plays, but the arrogance and power of the critics . . . it’s ridiculous.”
Sullivan steers the conversation away from the critics and a student asks a general question about plays. “The people who created the plays were thinkers. ‘Hamlet’ has all the attributes of man. It is the greatest play ever written. Nobody tries to do bad theater, but it is so hard to do because a play celebrates human life. To make it live is so difficult. It’s like climbing a mountain during an avalanche. ‘Hamlet’ is like that.”
The session ends and Bain returns to Shabatura, who is manipulating files and linear drawings on her computer screen. Though the technology is rather removed from his comprehension, Bain is a scenic designer at heart and can tell by the shapes and visuals in front of him where he wants to go with it. “I would like two inches more along the flooring; just up a little to encapsulate the space.” Or “The arches seem a bit low here. Can we make them higher?”
The work goes on for a couple of hours before the two quit for the day and schedule another meeting.
On the way out to dinner, Bain stops at the box office and asks about the attendance for that evening’s production of “Detroit.” “We got about 120,” says the ticket manager.
“So only 30 more to go!” Bain says as he waves goodbye.
At a family-owned Greek eatery a few doors down from the theater, Bain dines on a meal of lamb chops and a feta salad. He waxes about his days in Berlin as an intelligence officer in the U.S. army, and how he left early to come back to Minneapolis to join a burgeoning theater troupe. He had already quit his schooling at the University of Minnesota in his sophomore year. “There was no future for me. I can’t do anything where there is no future. The only thing I ever did where there was no future was alcohol and drugs. There was certainly no future in that.”
He remembered how he first met John Clark Donahue and the great actress Wendy Lehr. The three had essentially formed what was to become the Children’s Theatre Company of Minneapolis in 1965. It became one of the most successful theaters of its kind in the country and featured in large part an annual production of “Cinderella,” in which Bain played the wicked stepmother.
After finishing his meal, Bain slides the plates to his side and says “You know we did ‘Hamlet’ a couple of years ago; I directed it.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a breath. “It was the most wild thing I’ve ever done. When it started out . . .” He then went into a no-less-than 45 minute recounting of the production. It was set in a contemporary landscape with television screens and elevators by which the characters experienced the machinations of the plot. As he spoke, his arms gestured fantastically and his facial countenance altered in considerable ways. At one point he paused, leaned over the table and said, “But Hamlet wasn’t there because he was off to Wittenburg to attend film school!” He then continued on until he got to the speech where Hamlet begins “Oh that this too, too solid flesh would melt.” Bain recited the entire speech.
By the end his eyes were slightly red. He reached with the napkin under his glasses, quite inconspicuously, or so he thought.
“I’m glad the question was asked,” he said.
Bain walked out of the restaurant and back to his theater, the Jungle Theater. “To be or not to be” is no longer the question. Bain Boehlke just “is.”
Ryan Sexton is studying journalism at the University of Minnesota.
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Thinking about going?
Show: “The Heiress” at The Jungle Theater, 2951 Lyndale Ave S., Minneapolis 55408
Runs: June 20-Aug. 10.
Tickets: $25-$43.
Performance times: Tuesday-Thursday 7:30 p.m., Friday-Saturday 8 p.m., Sunday-2 p.m. and 7:30 p.m.
Phone: 612-822-7063.
Online: www.jungletheater.com