“Everybody” Overreaches

In 1929, beleaguered by increasingly negative criticism of his new work’s latest serialized chapters, James Joyce approached a friend about the prospect of taking the seemingly doomed project off his hands. It was a bailout that never came to fruition, however, as Joyce eventually rallied against his critics to complete “Finnegans Wake,” his final novel. Yet now, 74 years on from its publication, “Finnegans Wake” is, if less maligned, not much more understood. Or read, for that matter—the book’s reputation as an impenetrable thicket of allusions and nonsense words leaves few willing to hack their way through the entire thing. Daniel W. Erickson ’14, writer, actor, and director of “Here Comes Everybody,” hoped to change that with his one-man production. The piece, which ran at the Adams Pool Theatre through September 28 was Erickson’s attempt to render a colossus of world literature approachable. What was intended to be a conversational manner, however, came off as forced and glib, largely obscuring what was meant to be an intimate and personal work.

Erickson’s project—“play” isn’t the right word—set out to convince the audience of the merits of picking up a novel that is often considered more or less incomprehensible, and his work was a mélange of singing, musings, music, and literary criticism. Indeed, his analysis of “Finnegans Wake” was one of the most successful parts of the production: even the two unassuming words of the title are packed with typically Joycean wordplay, and Erickson did a good job of teasing out all the layers of meaning. At the same time, though, much of Erickson’s commentary was predicated on the assumption that viewers know nothing about the novel or the sources from which it draws its many allusions—those who do may find a good bit of it redundant.

The largest problem with “Here Comes Everybody,” however, was that it never managed to disappear into itself; it always persisted in feeling like a performance, and not a great one at that. Erickson strove for a casual air but rarely managed to carry it off—the grinning, “I-know-this-is-a-joke” look with which he delivered so many of his lines deadened any humor in the words, as did the frantic manner he often resorted to in an attempt to play up his jokes. The humor in Joyce’s lines was perfectly able to hold its own without the forced laughter Erickson interspersed throughout his reading. There is nothing less funny than trying to be funny. While some of Erickson’s lines do indeed contain a glimmer of wit, his speaking style detracted and distracted from both his jokes and his serious analysis.

This is not to say, however, that there were not moments of the production that were closer to the bone. The traditional Irish music that Erickson and musicians Ryan A. Murphy ’14 and Christian N. Fohrby ’14 included throughout the piece was a smart choice—Erickson’s voice has a simple, winsome charm, and inviting the audience to join in created a genuine atmosphere of bonhomie that Erickson tried and failed to capture elsewhere. Another high point occurred at the end of the first act, where Erickson recounted how Joyce’s work resonated with his own existential journey. Here, Erickson dropped his comic schtick, delivering the only truly personal moment of the evening and injecting his monologue with a much-needed sense of sincerity. Yet even this was undercut by the fact that Erickson made extensive use of his notes, reading from the page instead of speaking genuinely. There was the kernel of a good idea here—Erickson would have done well to bring the scene’s emotional oomph to other parts of this work.

Drop the clowning, drop the unnecessary Irish accent, and Erickson would have a project that succeeded in its goal—his love of Joyce’s book was infectious and clearly unfeigned. The problem was that so much of the piece was delivered in so unpalatable a manner. Erickson was at his best when forgetting the theatrics, letting his guard down and singing happily, giving himself over to the music of Joyce’s language, or entreating the audience as they left to simply “read this damned book.”

—Staff writer Erica X Eisen can be reached at erica.eisen@thecrimson.com.