STAGE REVIEW : ‘My Africa’: Tragedy, Hope From Fugard

In Athol Fugard’s “My Children! My Africa!” at the Henry Fonda Theatre, what you hear is what you get. And what you get is absolutely gripping.

This is a storyteller’s play--and a listener’s play. There’s hardly any visual spectacle--just three actors, three hours and a tale that must be told.

The words themselves, while plentiful, are never dense. It’s hard to imagine that someone couldn’t understand what’s going on.

More than any other recent play, this one feels like a tragedy in the classic sense. Great aspirations. Eloquent arguments. Human flaws. Inexorable forces. Catharsis.

Fugard himself staged this production at La Jolla Playhouse, where it opened in August, and producers Richard F. Pardy and Vidal Sassoon brought it to Hollywood. It’s a noble move, if not necessarily a lucrative one. Now, someone else should go the extra mile and make sure that this area’s high school students have a chance to see it--it’s a play that could change young lives.

Of course, some potential benefactors might deem “My Children!” too dangerous for high school students. It’s about the clash, in 1984 South Africa, between a dedicated high school teacher and the greater social currents that surround his school. The teacher’s argument on behalf of reading books instead of throwing stones is given a spirited rebuttal.

The teacher, Mr. M, is beloved, but not blameless. One of his actions near the end of the play is a real eyebrow-raiser; we have to think about this man, not just revere him.

As played by Brock Peters, Mr. M’s vanity and his pettiness are as evident as his finer qualities. It’s a splendid role for Peters, a geyser of an actor who never errs on the side of restraint.

Peters’ transparent expressiveness got in the way of his character in “Driving Miss Daisy,” at this same theater last year, but Mr. M is nothing if not transparently expressive. Like many of the best teachers, he is something of a ham, and Peters bites into him with relish. For those who saw Peters in Fugard’s “Master Harold . . . and the Boys,” he’s becoming an essential element of the American versions of Fugard’s work.

Sterling Macer Jr. plays Thami, Mr. M’s prized pupil and increasingly restive protege. Macer whips through his school scenes with such glee that we know how hard it must be for him to turn his back on all that, but he does so with a solid sense of commitment that wavers only slightly under Peters’ penetrating eye. And Macer delivers an electrifying speech at the end of Act 1 that keeps the crowd buzzing (too much so, perhaps; on opening night, too many people were still in the aisles, talking, as the second act began).

Looking on from the sidelines, more or less, is Nancy Travis as Isabel, a white student from a neighboring school. First, she is Thami’s debating opponent, then she is his teammate and friend, finally she reverts to being a luxury whose friendship he can no longer afford. Travis has such a delightful presence that it’s impossible not to share the hope for the future that thrives in her and Mr. M. Her closing expression of that hope, even after the situation seems hopeless, prevents “My Children!” from achieving pure tragic stature. But this final tentative upbeat feels true enough, given the events of recent years; if it makes the play more accessible to a larger audience, more power to it.

It’s possible that this script may not translate well to the screen, for mass consumption. It’s staged under hot lights (designed by Dennis Parichy) as a purely theatrical event, with an onstage curtain opened and closed by the actors, separating playing spaces (Douglas Stein and Susan Hilferty did the set, Hilferty the costumes). James LeBrecht’s sound track provides a few important hums and other noises of the impending revolution.

Then again, with “My Children!” playing in the heart of Hollywood, the mass-media moguls have no excuse not to see it. It obliterates the argument that there aren’t any terrific stories around anymore. Don’t let the exclamation points in the title put you off; this is a play that deserves them.

At 6126 Hollywood Blvd., Tuesdays through Saturdays at 8 p.m., Sundays at 7 p.m., Saturday and Sunday matinees at 2 p.m., through Dec. 2. $26.50-$32.50; (213) 410-1062 or (714) 634-1300.