In the other thread that most beautifully transcribes Howards End into this century, is also brought forth by the phenomenal Hilton as the Ruth stand-in, Walter, the ignored husband of Henry Wilcox. It’s a pitch perfect portrayal of love emerging and being discarded by the powerful and wealthy Henry, played most elegantly and intelligently by the excellent John Benjamin Hickey (Broadway’s Six Degrees of Separation). Floating alongside, deepening the attachment most majestically, we have Jack Riddiford embodying the form of the Young Walter and Burton diving in once again as the Young Henry. Hickey’s Henry doesn’t enter into the rectangle of truth until much later, as Eric and Walter’s friendship, a beautiful recreation of Redgrave/Thompson’s Ruth and Margaret, is forever formulated, but Henry’s intense personage hangs over the emotionally touching connection long before. Culminating in the most delicious re-imagining of the dinner scene straight from the Merchant/Ivory film, when Redgrave struggles  to understand Margaret and her friend’s feisty involvement in the Suffrage movement, and unable to fully digest all these women’s political and intelligent view points. Lopez does this alignment justice with a gay oral history told by the greek chorus of gay male friends at Eric’s 35th birthday party (another 35th, just like the marvelous Miss Bobbie at Company a few blocks away) that hits hard and wide, even when not exactly as embracing of all topics, including Prep and living with HIV, divesting the old stereotypes that gay sex leads to death and disease. But it is left up to Walter and ultimately Henry, to make these young men understand the agonies that his generation faced when AIDS devastated a whole swath of their generation, a result that I personally carry as deeply and strongly as many others my age.

The third act, filling out Part I of The Inheritance has the dynamic destruction of the narrator and the device that served the first three acts so well. The tears that flow just before each interval testify to the delicacy of the writing and poignancy of the truth that Lopez is trying to enlist.  It sometimes feels manipulative, and sometimes the stereotypes of the gaggle of gay men that surround the four or five main characters grows tiresome.  But it is the depth of disappointment that is inflamed with the Wilcox’s decision to ignore Walter’s deathbed request when the imbalances of empathy and emotional thought are more blatantly exposed. He throws forward the further collapse with the Hilary question, “Are you sure she’s going to win?” that piles on the parallels between the superficial decadence of the modern gay man’s lifestyle of prosperity and the rigid class system of Edwardian England, stomping forth the complicated inequalities that define our own need for external validation and instant gratification. The social system, although less cleanly defined still does define, with Henry Wilcox as the billionaire gay Republican at one end, and the homeless rent boy addicted to crystal meth at the other, even with the thin thread of disavowed connection between the two coming up to the surface for a grasp of air. There is “a difference in morality“, Jasper (Bolton) defiantly declares, but does wealth and privilege, sprouted forward quite remarkably by Wilcox at his brunch meeting with Eric’s friends, negate the advances of civil rights and the gay movements forward. Does this imbalance demolish the concept of equal opportunity for all, even those without a huge bank balance to buy their influence.  Leo’s poverty rings true, but it’s really in Toby’s destruction of Morgan that decidedly brings Act I to an emotional close, in its both beautiful writing and the cruel and ultimately deadly blow it brings to the narrator, Forster.

After the break, I was thrilled beyond belief to arrive back at the theatre for Part II, even after the tearful spot of trouble I found myself in throughout Part I. Morgan is gone, for the most part, and the meaninglessness of faux art and Fire Island Pine partying is all the rage. Civil rights have advanced, far beyond the closeted Forster’s era, but troubles remain as clear and disconcerting as ever, with friendships fracturing, partnerships dissolving, and the abandonment of one another the biggest disease of the modern gay man. The rectangle of community rises and falls, going from communal table to dance floor to graveyard memorial, as the pack finds themselves fighting for our nature’s soul, leading us to a ghostlike apparition that digs deep into our heart and breaks all resistance down. Troy makes his re-entrance in style (“Did you miss me?) dragging the beautiful, tender, and damaged Leo down a beach boardwalk to destruction, crashing a wedding and himself in that order. “Who said anything about falling in love?” is the phrase of the sun drenched blue dance party, seeing the fall-out from a far, but I didn’t see the blessed twist that waits for Leo. His winged creative flight is as satisfying and scary as they come, seeing destruction, and than salvation in the care of the house that forever belongs to Eric, long before he was even aware how perfect it all fit.

It also ushers in the magnificent, although slightly underused, Vanessa Redgrave (Broadway’s The Year of Magical Thinking) as caretaker Margaret, a beautifully structured nod on so many emotional levels to the Howards End character, Ruth, she portrayed in the film. Margaret’s story is brutal and engaging, traversing all that is at stake in The Inheritance. It’s a ‘passing-down’ moment, an Inheritance of style and connectivity with the likes of Forster, Kushner, and Redgrave, neatly encompassing all the themes of community, engagement, and art, dysfunction and alignment of love and care, acknowledging all and more that can be said of the young men who arrive at this house and their complicated and tragic need for salvation.

The performances, even the over exaggerated, revel in the brittle difficulty of this modern age, finding truth and togetherness against the force of humanity and this difficult time we find ourselves in. “How much do I matter?” is where its power and thought-provoking center lives. Surrounded by ghosts of men who were lost before their time, The Inheritance is guaranteed to bring forth the tears, even when put off a bit here and there with its overly simplistic dive into crystal meth, sexual addiction, and exploration. It is an exhausting and exhilarating way to spend a day in London’s West End at the Noël Coward Theatre after it transferred successfully from the Young Vic, but the journey is well intended, containing truths that need to be told and a message to all to try to do better. The ending struggled to enter my soul as much as the rest of this long “400 page” play that seems to be co-created by its ancestors and the triumphant. They speak of a future that we know nothing about, one that feels too rosy and optimistic, especially with all the dreadful realness of the world that we see around us, where “faggot” is still a hostile and purposeful snarl. I hope they are right, though, and the difficulty for me to see brightness and clarity in our collective future is misguided. Fingers crossed.

Forster’s Howards End, much like his Maurice, is gorgeous and deep, and as told in the beloved Merchant/Ivory film and reformulated into this epic masterpiece, The Inheritance by Lopez delivers on so many levels of observation and deconstruction in class structure and sociopolitical decrees that it is a wonder that it works as well as it does. Lopez finds his way through these themes and constructs them all most delicately and compassionately into a different time and place while holding true to the questions the story raises. It plays on Forster’s Maurice and the gay civil rights movement with clarity and sweet charm, developing ideas of prosperity and privilege that impact our fearlessness and pride. I couldn’t rise to my feet and applaud enough at the end of those nearly 7 hours, especially knowing that I’ll most likely have another chance, quite happily, to see The Inheritance once again when it floats over on Angel’s wings to Broadway, hopefully fully intact and ready to stomp its way onto the streets where this play lives.

Vanessa Redgrave’s Ruth would, and should, be very proud.