Teddy Starr, A Man Reinvented: Ross Barkan's ‘Colossus’

 

 

Ross Barkan's recent novel, Colossus, returns to a theme he explored in Glass Century: concealed family relationships and the reinvention of self in an unmoored America.

 

The subject is clearly a personal one for Barkan, but unlike Glass Century, which often felt driven by emotion, Colossus initially seems more intellectual than heartfelt. Only about halfway through does the novel reveal the emotional core that has been hidden beneath its portrait of a declining Americana. I found myself wondering whether Barkan might have developed the story more chronologically rather than withholding so much of Teddy Starr's back story until Part Two. Yet there is method in the structure. By delaying the revelation of Starr's origins, Barkan creates a mystery that sustains the reader through the novel's opening movement.

 

Teddy Starr is the pastor of Trinity Church in Pine Haven, a fictional Michigan town. At first he resembles a fox among the hens of his congregation, pursuing unhappy parishioners' wives with a confidence that John Updike's Rabbit Angstrom might have admired while simultaneously cashing in on local real estate opportunities in a manner reminiscent of Richard Ford's Frank Bascombe.

 

The Richard Ford influence is impossible to miss. Barkan even opens with an epigram from The Sportswriter: "All we really want is to get to the point where the past can explain nothing about us and we can get on with life."  Indeed, Teddy Starr has shut the door on his past and like Bascombe, Starr also becomes a real estate agent, giving him a unique vantage point on his community (and ability to profit on it): “A realtor is a showman, a handmaiden, and advertiser for your arriving life, the one you want to live.”

 

And it is in his depiction of Pine Haven that Barkan’s writing truly excels. The town becomes a miniature America, where affluent retirees and struggling laborers live only blocks apart, and where chain restaurants, economic anxieties, and cultural fragmentation define the landscape. The novel's greatest strength may be its portrait of contemporary middle-America, observed with both affection and skepticism.  The area’s annual Flapjack Festival is its entertainment pinnacle.

 

Starr himself is not particularly admirable. He is married to Daniella and the father of three children, yet he moves through life in the community assuming privileges he has never earned. He cheats almost casually, regarding temptation as one of the benefits of being Teddy Starr. His rationalizations are often revealing, particularly when he reflects on the limitations facing women in Pine Haven and quietly congratulates himself for having "sought my advantages."

 

Yet Starr does not entirely escape consequences. His relationship with his pubescent son Theodore is strained, and the estrangement between fathers and sons becomes one of the novel's recurring concerns. Here again one hears echoes of Richard Ford.

 

There are comparisons to Sinclair Lewis as well. Although Starr is no Elmer Gantry, Lewis's skeptical eye toward Main Street America hovers over much of the first half of the novel. Then comes the event that changes everything: a mysterious man begins following Starr and claims to be his brother.

 

From that moment the novel pivots.

 

Barkan signals the turn with one of the book's most powerful passages, a meditation on secrets, reinvention, and the curtains we draw between ourselves and the past:

 

“Imagine Daniella now what she would say, another man calling the only child, Theodore Starr a brother. Imagine, really, what Daniella would say if she knew it all, even this afternoon with Guinevere, if whatever she suspects matches up against vertiginous reality, if she can even produce a notion. But few can. Few can fathom what waits behind the curtain. Curtains are thick, after all, and it’s a greater feat than it looks to pull one back, to force one back.  And what if only disease and rot are behind them? What if, by closing the curtain, you escaped it all, as any individual with a modicum of intellect and ambition would? This is the pioneer spirit, the American Mundus, reinvention to starve or perdition, to work your way closer to God, the true God. And my brother, and his people, knew nothing of that.“

 

Suddenly the reader is thrust backward into another life entirely.

 

Without venturing too far into spoiler territory, Part Two reveals that Teddy Starr (né Reuvain Gantz) was raised in Brooklyn and that his origins are far removed from the evangelical Protestant identity he has constructed. The details emerge gradually, but the central conflict is familiar: family expectations versus personal freedom.

 

His father, an overbearing, workaholic collector of apartment buildings and something of a slumlord, expects his son to inherit the business (one of course can draw parallels to a certain contemporary figure). The prospect repels him. Ironically, it is his brother who is being groomed for scholarship and religious life. The burden of expectation hangs heavily over the household.

 

How Reuvain becomes Teddy Starr is the heart of the novel. Two figures shape that transformation: Talia, his first youthful love, and Teddy, an extraordinary Asian handball player whose influence proves even more significant.

 

The handball sequences are among the finest passages in the book. Much as tennis functioned as a metaphor in Glass Century, handball becomes a metaphor for life itself—competition, discipline, courage, and self-definition. On the handball court even the Mexicans and Puerto Ricans defer to Teddy.  “It was fury, and it was a dance.  With balletic rage, he rearranged the geometry of the courts, his ball cracking low against the wall, unreachable every time.”

 

Eventually Reuvain must confront his father: “I anticipated, always, my father‘s rage. I was like a mariner reading the clouds for a rainstorm. I had chosen the handball courts over him, and I would pay.“ He accuses his father of running “a gutter empire” and soon the confrontation becomes deadly.

 

He flees Brooklyn.  He borrows his new first name from his handball court mentor and as he boards a random bus to Detroit, he sees a neon sign “Starr and Co., Deli” and so life changes for the reborn “Teddy Starr” and he ultimately begins the life we have already seen unfolding in Pine Haven.

 

Part Three examines the consequences of that reinvention. The truths Starr has concealed are exposed to his wife, his congregation, and his community. Daniella's furious assessment of him as a fraudulent outsider cuts directly to the novel's central concern: how much of a life can be built upon invention before the structure collapses?

 

Forced to confront his congregation, Starr prepares to deliver his sermon and confession: “they shimmer, my flock, even as they begin to bend my way, their wet lips crinkling, curiosity, commingling with fury… I feel oxidized and ancient like the same statue was striding the Rhodesian Harbor, my brassy flesh, collapsing into the brine. They gape at my crumbling.”   

 

Yet this is also a novel about America, and America has always had a remarkable capacity for reinvention. Time passes. Wounds heal. The disgraced pastor discovers that public life remains open to him. Indeed, he is even offered an even greater opportunity: a run for Congress.

 

The irony is unmistakable. The man who built his life on concealment and reinvention is rewarded rather than punished. One might even view his ascent as a metaphorical ride UP the escalator to seize the golden ring of success. Yet Barkan's point is not simply political. Teddy Starr embodies a distinctly American belief that identity is endlessly renewable, that the past can be escaped, rewritten, or transformed into advantage, no matter how corrupt that past might have been.  Fitzgerald’s Jay Gatsby similarly tried to hide a past in his delusional pursuit of the American Dream. 

 

In Colossus, Ross Barkan has produced a worthy successor to Glass Century and an impressive second installment in what appears to be an emerging trilogy examining authenticity, family, ambition, and American political life.

 

One final note. I found the hardcover's overall low-contrast typographical design and leading to be tiring on older eyes during extended reading. A minor complaint, but one worth mentioning.

 

And a coda, totally unrelated, sunrise this morning during my daily early walk…

 

The "Anti-Weaponization Fund," a Grafter Government Unhinged, and the Final Arrival of ‘1984’

 

 

It’s been reported on, but from my perspective without the glacial shock wave it deserves: the so-called “slush fund” ostensibly targeted toward January 6 perpetrators. The act itself feels almost like trolling by this “president,” but more than that, a smokescreen while potentially making him and his family millions of dollars richer by granting immunity from past and present IRS scrutiny.

 

I begin with my favorite political cartoonist’s take on the subject. Mike Luckovich not only points out the hypocrisy of it all, but, more subtly, the press’s lack of focus on the real issue. It is not merely the contrast with the relatively minor transgressions of prior administrations, but the failure of the Fourth Estate to shake its own foundations loudly enough to affect change. At least we still have independent journalists metaphorically riding as Paul Revere, such as Paul Krugman.  In “The Looting of America; MAGA corruption reaches the point of no return,” he writes that “few things shock me these days, but this development — in which a Justice Department that works for Trump is paying a vast sum to ‘settle’ a lawsuit brought by Trump himself — is a new nadir in self-dealing, further revealing Trump’s utter contempt for the American people.”

 

His is only one of many similar voices one can now find on Substack, independent historians, political scientists, ex-government officials, and even perceptive humorists. While the traditional news media may report the same facts, few institutional voices seem willing to say so directly. Heaven forbid Dear Leader be offended or, especially, be laughed at.

 

The broader normalization of conflicts of interest surfaced again when Andrew Ross Sorkin of The New York Times, on a related issue, wrote in his newsletter: “…thanks for all of your notes regarding President Trump’s 3,700 trades. I’d love to hear your thoughts on what trading policy for federal officials should look like. For example, should trading be banned entirely? Restricted to specific windows? Managed through blind trusts? Furthermore, should public disclosures be immediate or delayed, and how should the policy address family members?”

 

I dashed off my response, recognizing that he is perhaps walking on institutionally mandated eggshells: “Andrew, the fact that you can even ask whether there should be a trading policy for federal officials shows the erosion of the core principles on which this country was founded. Of course they should be banned from trading individually, or at the very least required to place investments in blind trusts, as other officials have done in the past. It goes without saying, or once would have. The potential conflicts of interest are simply too numerous, and the temptation too great, as we have witnessed time and again with the current administration.

 

“And what has happened to the rule of law, with the arbitrary establishment of a $1.776 billion ‘Anti-Weaponization Fund’ to ‘compensate’ individuals involved in the January 6, 2021 Capitol attack? This is American justice at work?

 

“It is bad enough that an entire political culture seems increasingly comfortable with graft. The mere fact that we are now publicly debating whether elected officials should trade stocks while possessing inside knowledge and the ability to influence day-to-day market movements, not to mention accepting lobby money to favor industries or causes, makes me lose hope.”

 

In spite of being one of Trump’s most obsequious supporters, perhaps this “Anti-Weaponization Fund” was a bridge too far even for Pam Bondi who resigned as AG. How convenient, then, to have Todd Blanche step in, without Congress now having a further say to block his becoming Acting AG (not that they would if they could). As Trump’s personal lawyer, Blanche represented him in criminal cases including the New York hush money case, which ended with convictions on 34 felony counts, as well as the federal cases brought by special counsel Jack Smith, now abandoned. Apparently Blanche works tirelessly to satisfy his direct report, the President of the United States and not the Constitution.

 

On to other dystopian developments, arriving with such rapidity one can hardly hold them in one’s head long enough to think about them. Among the latest architectural impositions proposed for the White House and Washington, D.C. is the “United States Triumphal Arch,” supposedly commemorating the 250th anniversary of American independence, though in reality seeming more like a monument to Trump himself.

 

It immediately recalls George Orwell’s 1984 and its “enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete,” bearing “the three slogans of the Party: WAR IS PEACE, FREEDOM IS SLAVERY, IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH.”

 

Might this be just one of others planned? In 1984 “scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.”

 

And there it is again: the fusion of power, propaganda, and intimidation disguised as patriotism in massive concrete. Orwell understood that authoritarianism eventually expresses itself physically. Not content merely to dominate language and thought, it seeks permanence in gigantic buildings, and endless spectacles celebrating the Leader and the State.

 

What once seemed satirical exaggeration now arrives incrementally, proposal by proposal, outrage by outrage, each one quickly replaced by the next before we have time to absorb it. One becomes exhausted not only by the events themselves, but by the sheer velocity of them. That, perhaps, is part of the strategy, essentially a Gish Gallop applied to governance itself: a torrential inundation of events, too many to process.

 

Anything is now possible with this administration. So, as a citizen, I turned to my two Senators and Representative, sending them the New York Times Op-Ed piece “Trump Just Took Us Somewhere the Country Had Never Been Before.”

Not that I expected them to actually read it, but at least to register my concern. I did get one reply. It was 1984-ish in its own small bureaucratic way:

 

“Delivery has failed to these recipients or groups: Senator Rick Scott (receipt@rickscott.senate.gov); The recipient's mailbox is full and can't accept messages now. Please try resending your message later, or contact the recipient directly.”

 

Instead I heard:  “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.”

‘Vineland Place’ at Palm Beach Dramaworks: A Literary Thriller of Secrets and Deception

 

 

This is the world premiere of an intriguing play from Palm Beach Dramaworks’ Perlberg Festival of New Plays: Vineland Place by Steven Dietz. If the playwright’s name sounds familiar, it may be because Dietz has long been one of the country’s most produced dramatists, with some forty plays to his credit. This latest work sits squarely within his wheelhouse: part murder mystery, part psychological duel, wrapped in a highly stylized production where every theatrical element contributes to the whole. Look to the shadows, the pauses, the sidelong glances, and the accumulating unease to find both the meaning and the pleasure of this play.

 

It begins innocently enough. A young writer, Henry Sanders, is hired by Victoria Brody, widow of novelist Fenton Brody, a one-book literary phenomenon whose lone success, Sheridan Road, became a cult classic, “a thriller wrapped around the harrowing emotional drama of a family.” A publisher, having paid a substantial advance, was eagerly awaiting the sequel, Vineland Place, until Brody died in a nine-story fall from the couple’s penthouse apartment (“the best thing that could possibly happen on the eve of publication”).

 

Victoria promises the publisher the nearly completed manuscript and hires Sanders to finish it. He must work inside the apartment where the notes and manuscript remain, taking nothing home at night, even signing an NDA before beginning. Nothing suspicious here, right? Sanders appears the ideal choice, idolizing Brody as he does. You might say he belongs to the cult’s vanguard.

 

This is a two-hander, and I cannot think of a more ideal actor for Victoria Brody than Anne-Marie Cusson, who excelled in another memorable PBD two-hander nearly a decade ago, Collected Stories, likewise a play with writing and authorship at its heart. That production remains one of my favorite Dramaworks offerings from that period, in no small part because of Cusson’s performance.

Christopher Ryan Cowan and Anne-Marie Cusson; Jason Nuttle Photography

 

Opposite her is PBD newcomer Christopher Ryan Cowan as the eager, star-struck Henry Sanders, hired to complete the unfinished novel. What could possibly go wrong? Plenty.

 

What begins as a seemingly straightforward story about a young writer finishing the work of a dead literary idol gradually becomes something far more layered and psychologically combative. Dietz turns the relationship between Sanders and Victoria into an increasingly dangerous duel of shifting sympathies.

 

This is where the acting of Cusson and Cowan truly shines, the two performers handling these reversals like a finely tuned piece of counterpoint. Director J. Barry Lewis makes the most of these high-wire moments through precise pacing, furtive looks, and carefully measured pauses that allow the tension to build layer by layer. He understands how to transform what at first resembles a sophisticated drawing room drama into a genuine murder mystery. Clever dialogue and concealed secrets become dangerous weapons, and Lewis capitalizes on every opportunity the script affords him.

 

The play demands close attention from its audience. Some of the necessary back-story must be explained rather than dramatized directly, occasionally brushing against the fourth wall, and the intricacies of the plot matter greatly. Still, Dietz keeps these mechanics moving smoothly, and this cast and production team seem particularly adept at making those transitions feel effortless. One can easily imagine Vineland Place adapted into a Netflix miniseries where some of the back-story might unfold more expansively onscreen.

 

Anne-Marie Cusson and Christopher Ryan Cowan; Jason Nuttle Photography

Cusson delivers another bravura performance. Is Victoria seductive, manipulative, vulnerable, or victimized? Cusson walks that line throughout the evening, sometimes bewildering the audience, sometimes delighting it, often doing both simultaneously. Cowan proves an effective foil. Was Henry hired merely to finish a manuscript, or perhaps for companionship by a woman widowed only six months earlier, amid the wine, candlelight, and increasingly suggestive atmosphere? Or was there another motive altogether? Cowan balances defensiveness and aggression effectively, his character alternately powerless and empowered depending on the shifting terrain of the scene.

 

Anne Mundell’s scenic design hangs heavily in a film noir, “bad-decisions-that-make-great-stories” atmosphere perfectly suited to the play. The upper-class Boston apartment, perched on the ninth floor of a building where the elevator goes only to the eighth, becomes part of the mystery itself. Watch carefully: even that seemingly incidental detail carries implications. The set proves ideal for bringing together both the elegance of drawing room drama and the menace of noir.

 

Costume designer Brian O'Keefe has ample opportunity to chart Victoria Brody’s shifting personas, from a striking red pantsuit to a seductive kimono-style jacket that lends a bohemian allure to her appearance. Henry Sanders, by contrast, is appropriately subdued in utilitarian young-writer attire, complete with a weathered leather tote bag: nothing flashy, nothing memorable.

 

The lighting design by Paul Black deepens the atmosphere as the evening progresses, gradually moving the play from drawing room sophistication toward full noir sensibility, the illumination dimming into low light and candle glow.

 

PBD newcomer Robertson Witmer provides both sound design and original music. The opening music is somber and almost liturgical, with echoes of Erik Satie in the piano passages, at times underscored by droning sustained notes that quietly suggest dread beneath the civilized surface.

 

Projection designer Adam J. Thompson reminds us that while this is indeed a murder mystery, writing itself remains at the center of the play. Letters occasionally stream across the set, coalescing into words and phrases — including the ominous “I know what you’ve done” — while even the ellipsis takes on unexpected significance.

 

And so the play finally arrives at its central question: which secrets have been deliberately withheld, and which thoughts remain merely unfinished? “One of us is smart enough to pull this off,” a character observes, and the audience spends much of the evening wondering which one it is. The answer leads to a satisfying and memorable denouement. This is a thriller very much worth seeing.

 

Vineland Place; Jason Nuttle Photography