The Magic Fire

House divided: In the midst of political turmoil, the Bergs and the Guarneris come together for a birthday party inThe Magic Fire.

by David Anthony Fox

At the end of Wagner's Die Walküre, Wotan -- having sentenced his errant daughter, Brünnhilde, to extended sleep on a mountaintop -- partially relents. He softens the blow by surrounding her with a ring of magic fire, penetrable only to a genuine hero, and thus ensures that Brünnhilde will be rescued by someone worthy of her.

The image of the magic fire, etched in a complicated father-daughter relationship, is an ambivalent one: It evokes both parental protection and punishment. It is also an apt, literate metaphor for Lillian Groag's flawed but engrossing play, The Magic Fire.

"I'm an immigrant in a land of immigrants," begins Lise Berg, the play's narrator and central character (modeled on Groag herself). She speaks of her childhood, some 45 years before, when she and her extended family of displaced Europeans found themselves living in the Argentina of Juan and Evita Peron.

The Bergs are more than strangers in a strange land -- they exist in a kind of overarching, collective identity crisis. Amalia (Lise's mother) and her people -- the Guarneris -- are Italian, and experience life operatically through Verdi and Puccini. Otto Berg (Lise's father) is Viennese -- for him, life is enlivened by Strauss waltzes. The Guarneris are Catholic; the Bergs are Jewish. Each family has fled from one fascist country only to find itself entrenched in another.

For Lise, growing up in this cultural overload, life is predictably complicated. On one hand, she has a dream childhood, immersed in literature and music. Lise can act out Tosca's suicide leap as naturally as other children would play cowboys and Indians. The passionate Guarneris and the cerebral Bergs are often crazy, but they're never dull. And there's no doubt that little Lise is loved by the whole clan.

But in a profound sense, the family doesn't really live in the world. They are dimly aware of the grim situation in Argentina -- of the Peronistas and their fascist tactics -- but the Berg-Guarneris are too self-obsessed to take action. And anyway, they are Jewish-Catholic, Italian-Viennese, self-defined intellectual aristocrats -- whose side should they be on?

It's a sprawling family story, and The Magic Fire is a sprawling play -- 15 characters, three acts and nearly three hours long.

With so much to consider, I find myself divided. Groag is at her best in the play's second act, which is a real tour de force: a grand birthday party with both families present, and the dueling Argentine political factions literally outside each door. Here the dramatic action (which, by the way, might have made a great Puccini opera) is superbly orchestrated. Perhaps (as at real family gatherings) there is at least one in-law too many, but each character is still sharply defined. There are also echoes of Chekhov -- The Cherry Orchard especially, but also Three Sisters. Yet the characters of Groag's play feel completely original, and the complexity with which she creates them -- at once loving and sharply critical -- is the hallmark of a fine writer.

If all of The Magic Fire were as good as this, it might be one of the finest plays of the decade. Unfortunately, the third act falters by unnecessarily revisiting the same territory as the second. More problematic is the super-structure that positions the adult Lise as narrator. Again, these scenes are unnecessary because Groag has given us everything we need in the family sequences. Lise's monologues are also overwritten and pretentious (it's clear the family vices haven't entirely skipped the younger generation).

Still, the best of Magic Fire makes it absolutely worth seeing. Complementing the play is a visually stunning and beautifully staged production -- hats off to director Blanka Zizka, and her production team: David P. Gordan (set designer), Janus Stefanowicz (costumes) and Russell H. Champa (lighting). Among the able performers, Susan Wilder (Amalia), Martin Rayner (Otto) and especially Mikel Sarah Lambert (Clara) impress most through their subtlety.

The Magic Fir, through Jan. 5, Wilma Theater, Broad and Spruce sts., 215-546-7824