Lisa Sanai Doling's “SUMO” offers New Yorkers, who are barely exposed to its ancient Japanese discipline, the opportunity to learn about it in an atmosphere of credibility and respect. Director Ralph B. Pena's visually staging unfolds as a living sculpture of the athlete's almost naked bodies, and immerses us in the pageant and poetry of spiritual practice, which is also a sport and a large corporation.
But being authentic and respectful may not always make you feel emotionally satisfied. “Sumo” is also a production of Ma-yi Theater Company and La Jolla Playhouse, which opened at the public theater on Wednesday, but rarely rises to the dramatic heights they are sought. For long stretches, it feels more like a fuzzy natural documentary than a play.
It's not that there are no events. The fictional Tokyo Heia, or wrestling stability, brutally enforces a rigid hierarchy based on competitive outcomes. The main enforcer is Mitsuo (David Sie), one tournament as it reaches the highest level of the sport. Layered beneath him are Ren (Ahmad Kamal), Shinta (Ar T. Kim), Fumio (Red Concepcion) and others (Michael Hisamoto), each wearing the traditional Roinkoros, carrying the privileges of their respective ranks. The lowest man spends much time serving rice and cleaning the ring.
But even under him there is someone. Naturally, it's Akio (Scott Keji Takeda), a newcomer who's not ranked. The 18-year-old, a troubled background, dreamed of becoming a wrestler from a young age. When he gets in the way of such a story, his ambitions must be humble. When he cleans Mitsuo in the bathtub, he scrubs arrogance, pain and desire.
“You take away the need,” says Mitsuo.
Like Christopher Diaz's “The Elegant Entrance to God Chad” on American wrestling, the finest plays set in the world of men's sports film their environment and the rituals of abuse of the athletes within it as the starting point of the story rather than the story itself. At best they suggest a general atmosphere of toxic masculinity and a connection to the ruthless clash of horseless capitalism.
Doling may have taken that approach. The woman is considered a contaminant of Heya and her outer arm. Sponsors put significant commercial pressure on fighter jets. But instead, “SUMO” is in the spiritual spirit of sports, with the echoes of the basic battle between God and God, the characters' semi-sadistic initiation and humiliation.
“That should make you feel bad,” Ren tells Akio after dropping the fly onto the floor as if to flick it. “A portion of us must be destroyed to make what comes afterwards.”
That didn't work for me, but that certainly does for Akio. In a series of competitions designed to give structure and momentum to otherwise static play, he rises quickly to the rankings, and therefore the respect of other men. His spiritual growth is said to be more Rocky or so, but it's hard to follow the dramatic turn that is so thinly sketched. At one point I wasn't sure – and still not sure after reading the script – is he wrong by throwing a match or not throwing it?
The focus is on the fact that too many crises are piled up in faithful efforts to identify each character. One wrestler leaves shy. Another person apparently commits suicide. The gay subplots that become bold in the Japanese sumo context are treated very delicate and abstract, making them difficult to follow. We are told more about men's in vitro emotions than are permitted to be seen in vivo.
It's not a matter of physical production. Pena's staging offers plenty of strong action, like planetary collisions, where men's size and strength are almost elemental, mainly within a simple 15-foot sumo ring designed by Wilson Chin. (The direction of the fight comes from the pace of James Yagasi and Chelsea.)
In other moments, the projections of Hana S. Kim, lighting by Paul Whitaker, and the sound of Fabian Obispo evoke the quietness of the bath, the talk of the restaurant, and the screams of competition. And throughout, it tells a totally vivid story, whether it's the heavy belts you wear at work or the lovely relaxation robes you wear at work.
But when you search for the soul in your clothes, you don't think you are either accurate or clear. It is a problem with the virtues of plays. Respect, subtlety, the value of great life is not that great in the drama, and the framing of the work with Ingratie comic narration from the three priests of Doling has a paradoxical effect, as if otherwise too strange for New York theatre audience. SUMO looks like a museum exhibit trapped behind glass. Better, perhaps, just throw us into the ring.
SUMO
At the Manhattan Public Theater until March 30th. publicTheater.org. Running time: 2 hours 20 minutes.
