Review of 'Hannah and Martin'

This real-life love story provides the basis for Hannah and Martin, a new drama by first-time playwright Kate Fodor that explores the fallout from a clash of love and politics. Can we forgive a loved one's politics, or is that a betrayal of values? Can we support them without forgiving? Are certain things beyond forgiveness? Are political ideas, even when they embrace Nazism, not always—as Hannah says in her mistranslated English in the play—"gray and white"?

This is the kind of play that will have audience members talking amongst themselves over their apres-theater drinks, though it's certainly not the first work to raise questions about what acts constituted complicity with the Nazis and what circumstances might make them forgivable. That it nonetheless stimulates such debate is a testament to the efficacy of the dialogue and performances. Hannah and Martin, which is produced by the Epic Theatre Center (dedicated to "socially minded" theater), is a thoughtful, polished production. The author's and director Ron Russell's ambitions—or perhaps their pretensions—do, however, get in the way of what could more streamlined storytelling. The stage is often cluttered with furniture and people, as in the opening tableau that places most cast members onstage even though Melissa Friedman, as Hannah, is speaking a monologue.

The first scenes of Hannah and Martin jump between Hannah discussing the Nuremberg trials on radio (which takes place in Germany) and her assistant challenging her decision to assist Heidegger (which takes place in the U.S.). These scenes could be excised since debate about Nuremberg defendants, which occurs during the radio show, is covered in other conversations in the play, and the disagreement between Hannah and her assistant is repeated in the second act. After its jumbled beginning, the play flashes back to Arendt and Heidegger's first private meeting, then proceeds mostly chronologically—as it should do from the start. Nothing's gained from the out-of-order sequencing; on the contrary, it necessitates Friedman changing clothes onstage, which jars with the aura of propriety surrounding these highly educated people.

Futhermore, Baldur von Schirach, Hitler's former youth organizer, and the judge and prosecutor in his trial are not needed as characters. Their scenes just elongate the play, which runs close to two and a half hours, when Hannah's conversations about von Schirach would suffice to draw analogies between his and Heidegger's culpability. And the set could be simplified by eliminating the wardrobe trunk—needed only for the aforementioned costume change—and replacing the bed with a settee: more compact, and more appropriate when the bed is used just for seating (it's used as a bed in only one brief scene).

Hannah and Martin does offer several well-staged moments of both warmth and conflict. The scenes with Karl Jaspers, Arendt's beloved professor who broke with his colleague Heidegger over Nazism, have a tenderness and nobility to stand in contrast with the asperity in Heidegger's home. Hannah's climactic proclamation in defense of Heidegger—"He taught me how to think!"—reverberates with the anguish and stubborn affection that haunt her. What the drama doesn't fully capture is the romantic ardor between Arendt and Heidegger. Their talky courtship scenes depict the attraction as largely intellectual. Yet their real-life letters, which are excerpted in the program, suggest a sexual passion that's only cursorily evoked.

Adrienne Onofri, one of BroadwayWorld's original columnists, created and writes the Gypsy of the Month feature on the website. She also does interviews and event coverage for BroadwayWorld, and is a member of the Drama Desk. Adrienne is also a travel writer and the author of Walking Brooklyn: 30 Tours Exploring Historical Legacies, Neighborhood Culture, Side Streets, and Waterways, published by Wilderness Press.

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