For almost two decades in the second half of the 20th century, writer Truman Capote had it all. Soaring after hits such as ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’and ‘In Cold Blood, the novelist whose work spanned both fiction and non-fiction was at the peak of his powers and a highlight on the New York social scene.
Surrounded by famous friends and confidantes who had it all, Capote became a friend who would lend an ear, yet with a hand not too far from his notebook. His revelations about the rich and famous in ‘Answered Prayers’ ultimately cost the writer his most dear and revered friendships one lonely Christmas.
Tru, by writer Jay Presson Allen, focuses on that isolated festive period for Capote where, sitting in his lavishly furnished New York apartment, the novelist ruminates over his past and present predicaments, and how the recently released extracts have caused some of his dearest female friends, his ‘swans’, to abandon him. Capote is still, infrequently, invited to dinner, and the moment covered in this show is a much more bittersweet one, where the author’s bravado and charisma deflect his unnerving new sense of loneliness.
It is an intriguing 90-minute piece, performed superbly by Jesse Tyler Ferguson and Charlotte D’Amboise, who both return to Tru after its successful Off-Broadway run earlier this year.
Yet before we come face to face with Capote, what is truly breathtaking about this production is the glorious combination of the Menier Chocolate Factory’s versatile space and Paul Farnsworth’s magnificent set design. As you walk into the venue, you are led through the hallway entrance to Capote’s apartment before entering a gorgeously decorated living area. Here, seats are integrated into the set and around the room, enabling audiences to get up close not just to Capote himself, but to his books, record player, collection of paperweights, and even private letters on his writing desk. In this sense, the set is deliberately exposing and a masterpiece in theatrical design, with each careful detail letting us into Capote’s life and encouraging a sense of intimacy that the script, a largely extended monologue, demands, while also ironically nodding to the intimacies exposed by Capote’s writing.
Indeed, it is a design that immediately charms and sweeps you up into Capote’s decadence, which is then magnified further by Ferguson’s captivating performance. From the very moment Capote swoops into the apartment, decked out in flamboyantly stylish outfits and expensive purchases, there is a sense of a man desperate to maintain his defiant and disruptive persona, brought to the fore instantly by Ferguson. Ferguson glides and drifts around the space, with the script becoming a neat blend of fourth-wall breaking and simply allowing Capote to drift and reminisce, utilising the surrounding audience only when required in a performance that lets Ferguson’s terrific portrayal breathe and be more than just an impersonation.
While there is much bluster and bravado from Ferguson’s Capote, there is also great tenderness and a creeping sense of remorse drifting in, even if the writer does not want to admit it. Reflections on a turbulent childhood and his pain at the absence of partner Jack Dunphy, abroad for the holidays, hint at Capote’s vulnerability. This is enhanced by the deft performance of Charlotte D’Amboise’s ‘The Swan’, an abstract construct who drifts in and out of the apartment and around Capote. Named after the affectionate nickname Capote had given to his socialite friends, the ones his new work exposes, D’Amboise’s characterisation and Allen’s script use this figure to blend Capote’s anxieties with his deteriorating relationships. The result is a sequence of neatly choreographed physical moments. Combined with Jaimal Odedra’s dark costume design, ‘The Swan’ never floats for too long in a poised portrayal that still keeps Ferguson’s conflicted creator centre stage.
It certainly helps if you know a little about Capote, his life, and his writings before entering his apartment, even if the man himself is all too keen to fill you in. That said, Ferguson’s rich and dynamic individual performance soars in an engrossing delivery that never falters. Just like the author, everything you see and hear is carefully coordinated and orchestrated.
Yet, unlike Capote’s desires, the result is something far more exposing and deliberate, revealing that underneath the big hat, coat, and penchant for alcohol lies a man reconciling with the wreckage caused by his creative decisions, whose wings have finally been clipped after one quip too many, and where what it means to be ‘Tru’ means very different things privately and publicly.
