The production of “Jungalbook” currently playing at Northwestern’s Theatre and Interpretation Center looks nothing like the Disney movie “The Jungle Book,” nor does it outwardly resemble the original stories by Rudyard Kipling.
Instead of a lighthearted, occasionally scary tale about a young boy growing up in a wolf pack, we are given a savage urban jungle populated by gangs, with the boy belonging to The Free People’s Wolf Pack.
This drastic change is not necessarily detrimental. Once you get over the shock of seeing Kaa the snake portrayed by three Rastafarians on skateboards and the tiger Sherakhan as a forceful thug with a shaved head, jeans and a wife-beater, it becomes clear that underneath the colorful changes, the central story is intact. The man-cub Mowgli, portrayed earnestly (if sometimes unconvincingly) by child actor Bradley Zachary Smith II, is at the heart of a gang war. Sherakhan (Scott Shimizu) is burning to kill Mowgli and will go to any length to breach the defenses of the wise but senescent Wolf leader Akela (Johanna Middleton).
The show does not apologize for its dark perspective; in fact, it relishes it. In one memorable vignette, Chil the vulture (Hannah Kahn) screams bloody murder as she plummets onto the asphalt from the basketball hoop and scours the jungle-gym (points for ironic set-design), glorifying in the death and decay caused by a drought. The dank atmosphere is occasionally cut by the insertion of exuberant performative elements such as chants, jam sessions and dances.
The snag in the rope is that this is meant to be children’s theatre — a rather dubious classification.
I, for one, usually associate this story with dancing in my living room in footie pajamas. And while I appreciate director Betsy Quinn’s thought-provoking, thorough adaptation, I would never bring a child to see it. It is simply too sinister. There are no over-saturated colors or jaunty musical interludes to alleviate the peril of the jungle, and I do not think a child younger than middle school-age should be exposed to such unrelieved grit and anxiety.
The highlight of the show is neither the children nor the adaptation, but the gang leaders. Middleton gives us a delightfully complex Akela, and Shimizu is a terrifying, animalistic Sherakhan. From the moment he prowls onto the stage, covered in ominous tattoos, his eyes flashing and his arms flexing under the temptation of violence, it is clear that Shimizu is out for blood. I had to resist crawling to a higher seat to distance myself further from his barely contained fury.
Middleton is, if possible, even better. Her delightfully complex character is torn under the strain of keeping her gang united under the threat of Sherakhan, the divisive inclusion of Mowgli into the group and the limitations of her quickly deteriorating body. The mantle of power lies heavy on her shoulders, and each judgment is weighed carefully and silently before the captivated audience. In her final scene, she explodes in a brief, dazzling burst of passion, privileging the audience to a glimpse of the Akela of old: an unfettered, unrivaled leader and a true ruler of the jungle.
Growing up, whether in a deciduous or urban jungle, is tough. Despite its flaws, this production gives an honest portrayal of one boy’s journey out of the jungle of his youth into the tangle of adulthood.
