In many ways, the two acts of Martin Yousif Zebari’s “Layalina,” receiving its world premiere at the Goodman Theatre, feel like two completely different plays.
The first is set in Iraq in 2003, shortly after the Americans took control of the country, at a time when the occupying forces were searching hard for Saddam Hussein. The Ibrahim family, privileged and protected to that point by Yaser’s (Mattico David) job with the government, seeks to leave the country for the United States, but it’s getting harder to do so.
In the meantime, protests roil the streets of Baghdad, with the younger generation — siblings Mazin (Ali Louis Bourzgui) and Layal (Becca Khalil) and Layal’s new husband Sahir (Waseem Alzer) — finding it exhilarating to join the crowds imploring for a better future. This, of course, causes alarm for Yaser and his traditional, pragmatic wife Karima (Atra Asdou), who protect their two younger children — we hear them playing upstairs —from any commotion.
Tightly structured and moving steadily towards major decisions forced upon the characters, the first act of “Layalina” depicts a traditional family upended by history, and underneath there’s just a needling sense that it could have been otherwise. “I knew this job of yours would ruin our life someday,” Karima says to Yaser, calmly and without resentment.
Act Two is set in Skokie in 2020, at the onset of the coronavirus pandemic. The offstage young children from the first act are now young adults and played by the actors (Bourzgui and Khalil) who played their much-older siblings in Act One. They’ve been raised by their older sister Layal, now played by Asdou, who portrayed the mother Karima in Act One.
Again, protests roil the streets, this time for social justice following the death of George Floyd. Layal and her visiting brother Mazin (now played by David) work hard to understand the gender fluidity that their younger siblings embrace, and deal with the choices they’ve made regarding how to pass down their cultural traditions and values.
But where Act One possesses an underlying drive and the capability of surprise, Act Two floats and meanders, mostly presenting the predictable.
There’s so much to like about “Layalina,” in both the writing and the production, directed by Sivan Battat with a particular attention to the small moments of joy. The performances are all exceedingly strong, particularly for a play where the actors portray different generations within the same family. The set designs, by the team known as casaboyce, communicate location with the same structure but smart and sharp differences in color and cultural specificity. The use of accents in the second act for the characters who came into adulthood before they immigrated, works to perfection, making tangible the generational divide.
“Layalina” brings to life lovely familial familiarities. The play overflows with affection for its characters, insisting on deeply sympathetic portraits all around. The married characters love each other. The adults are willing to sacrifice deeply for their younger charges, and when the time comes, the kids are willing to return the favor. Sure, they chafe against cultural expectations and experience disappointments and tragic loss, but their ties provide strength and comfort.
But in some ways, this intensely positive vision of familial love drives the second act towards over-sweet patness. There are no inter-personal tensions — generational, financial, sexual, cultural — that can’t be resolved with a relatively tame argument followed by a hug.
There’s a wonderful scene in the second act between Layal and Mazin, as neither can say certain words but they both know exactly what’s being discussed. Zebari depicts these characters with great clarity, yet doesn’t provide them with decisions to make.
But the more Zebari deals with the contemporary young adults, the more the characters feel simultaneously vague and capable of accessing and expressing all their emotional baggage with ease. And with that, the writing begins to rely on gimmicky elements like smoking pot as a source of humor.
Sometimes, writing about events and people at a distance brings a clear perspective, and writing about what’s too near to us brings blurriness.
