by Jordan Tannahill
Directed by Valary Cook
Presented by The Bloor West Village Players
representing Association of Community Theatres -- Central Ontario (ACT-CO)
It's a massive understatement to say that this was a tough play for me to watch, to listen to, to live in.
Multiple threads of my life were pulled up to the surface and tied into emotional knots by this piece, which is based on a true incident. For anyone who has experienced bullying at any age, in any form, or anyone who is a survivor of a suicide, this story can be nothing less than devastating. For anyone who's a member of the LGBTQ communities, the play is a stark reminder of the unforgiving, unaccepting sides of the world we live in. As author Jordan Tannahill himself has pointed out, there are still many places in the world where this play could not and would not be staged.
Tannahill's writing has a broad comic streak in places, which can help to make the bitter truths of the piece easier to swallow for many in the audience. I didn't begrudge the performers the laughs they drew, but for me the play cut too close to home. I couldn't laugh.
The most striking aspect of the script for me was its refusal to take sides, to assign guilt, to judge this one or to let that one off the hook. There's no neat resolution, no happy ending, no tying up of loose ends. The evening ends as it began, with all five characters still waiting "for an absolution that will never come" (to quote an apposite line from James Cameron's Titanic).
The great strength of this production lay in the various moments when each character in turn went on the attack. What these actors made painfully apparent was that the five people before us each came to this dinner evening carrying immense emotional burdens and hoping for some kind of validation, vindication, perhaps even forgiveness -- and that their explosions erupted as each one realized that she/he was not going to get away scot-free.
On the other hand, the cast had more variable success in staying in the moment during their quieter portions of the show. Some were clearly present at all times, but one or two lapsed occasionally into actor-waiting-for-next-cue attitudes.
In some ways, the strongest performance of the evening was given by Dylan Mills-Capote as the sullen Curtis. Head consistently dropped, voice muted but still audible, telegraphic sentences clipped off short, he gave a totally convincing portrayal of a teenager who's been called on the carpet and feels that he's being unfairly hit with all the blame -- as, in the context of this gathering, he is. Every one of his few remarks was pointed and timed with a near-ideal degree of precision and sharpness. His very stillness in most scenes highlighted the way that he was always present and very much in the moment, even though still and silent.
Andrew Horbatiuk as Bill (father of Curtis) gave a convincing portrayal of the man who feels sure that he is in the clear and thinks he can just push his way through the ordeal and come out the other side unscathed. Even so, we could clearly sense the underlying guilt about not knowing what his son had been doing -- the line about, "I know what my son is up to in his bedroom" had all the firmness of a melted stick of butter. What could have been stronger here was the sense of betrayal when his wife does not completely back him up.
Andrea Lyons first appeared as something perilously close to caricature -- the caricature of the giggly airhead -- but within a few moments it became apparent that the giggles were a coping mechanism to help Tamara (Curtis' mom) handle the pain which was confronting her. Tamara, of all the characters, was the one caught in the middle -- wanting to back her husband, needing to comfort her son, and still instinctively responding to and yearning to console a mother who's suffered loss. One or two of her sudden emotional gear changes didn't entirely convince me, but on the whole this was a portrayal which rang true.
Rob Candy presented a smooth, controlled exterior as Michael, the politician who was father of the dead Joel. Constant preoccupation with appearances underlay his every word and look. When he did snap, the change was both startling and utterly human for the first time.
Lydia Kiselyk centred the play as the bereaved mother, Debora. She vividly portrayed a woman with a real need for control, for order, for assurance. The loss of her son, and the revelations about his life that she uncovers during the play, all conspire to undermine and dislocate her in the most extreme ways. This character has to make some of the sharpest turn-on-a-dime emotional transitions I've ever seen in theatre, and Kiselyk nailed it consistently. The one moment in her performance that didn't quite ring true for me was the moment when she zeroed in on Curtis, demanding to know what he felt, if anything, when he wrote his letter. For just those few lines the emotion came across as calculated, where all the rest of her performance was deeply felt. Don't underestimate for a moment the difficulty of playing a character who has to go right down into the depths of emotional hell.
One of the reasons Debora centres the play so strongly is because the space in which the action unfolds is so clearly her place. Theresa Arneaud's design for this cool, crisp room with its stylish walls, clean-edged furniture, ghost chairs at the dining table, and more, says nothing to me about Michael but speaks volumes about Debora. Of course, the dramatic sculpture which draws focus to centre stage is hers -- created before Joel's death caused her artistic well of inspiration to run dry. The monochrome black-white-grey colour palette of the room, echoed in her clothes, also speaks volumes. As the play goes on, and we learn more about Joel's sense of play, love of colour, fluid sexuality and scorn of convention, it becomes clearer and clearer that he can never have felt much at home, either in this house, or with these parents.
A couple of moments were deeply moving indeed. After Tamara slapped Debora hard across the cheek, Curtis disappeared into the kitchen, to reappear with an ice cube in his hand which he gently applied to her face. This action came across as genuine compassion from Curtis, contrasting with the faux, carefully-scripted contrition of his letter -- which I felt completely sure had been written by his mother. Another was the moment when Debora left the dinner table to burst into tears in the kitchen, and Tamara instinctively went after her to comfort and calm her.
The very end of the play showed Michael and Debora sitting down to watch one of Joel's YouTube videos, "one of the funny ones." It's a truly gripping vignette, as they come face to face with their son, but not as they had ever seen or heard him before. For just a moment, as they smile and then laugh at Joel's filmed performance, you can believe in the possibility of a happy ending. But in real life, as those who grieve know all too well, you just don't get off that easily.
But then Curtis returns, by himself, and stands looking at them as they stare at him and the lights slowly fade. Tannahill's masterstroke, this Rorschach ending invites -- demands -- all kinds of speculations about why Curtis returns, and what he plans either to say or to do. One can only guess.
Lydia Kiselyk centred the play as the bereaved mother, Debora. She vividly portrayed a woman with a real need for control, for order, for assurance. The loss of her son, and the revelations about his life that she uncovers during the play, all conspire to undermine and dislocate her in the most extreme ways. This character has to make some of the sharpest turn-on-a-dime emotional transitions I've ever seen in theatre, and Kiselyk nailed it consistently. The one moment in her performance that didn't quite ring true for me was the moment when she zeroed in on Curtis, demanding to know what he felt, if anything, when he wrote his letter. For just those few lines the emotion came across as calculated, where all the rest of her performance was deeply felt. Don't underestimate for a moment the difficulty of playing a character who has to go right down into the depths of emotional hell.
One of the reasons Debora centres the play so strongly is because the space in which the action unfolds is so clearly her place. Theresa Arneaud's design for this cool, crisp room with its stylish walls, clean-edged furniture, ghost chairs at the dining table, and more, says nothing to me about Michael but speaks volumes about Debora. Of course, the dramatic sculpture which draws focus to centre stage is hers -- created before Joel's death caused her artistic well of inspiration to run dry. The monochrome black-white-grey colour palette of the room, echoed in her clothes, also speaks volumes. As the play goes on, and we learn more about Joel's sense of play, love of colour, fluid sexuality and scorn of convention, it becomes clearer and clearer that he can never have felt much at home, either in this house, or with these parents.
A couple of moments were deeply moving indeed. After Tamara slapped Debora hard across the cheek, Curtis disappeared into the kitchen, to reappear with an ice cube in his hand which he gently applied to her face. This action came across as genuine compassion from Curtis, contrasting with the faux, carefully-scripted contrition of his letter -- which I felt completely sure had been written by his mother. Another was the moment when Debora left the dinner table to burst into tears in the kitchen, and Tamara instinctively went after her to comfort and calm her.
The very end of the play showed Michael and Debora sitting down to watch one of Joel's YouTube videos, "one of the funny ones." It's a truly gripping vignette, as they come face to face with their son, but not as they had ever seen or heard him before. For just a moment, as they smile and then laugh at Joel's filmed performance, you can believe in the possibility of a happy ending. But in real life, as those who grieve know all too well, you just don't get off that easily.
But then Curtis returns, by himself, and stands looking at them as they stare at him and the lights slowly fade. Tannahill's masterstroke, this Rorschach ending invites -- demands -- all kinds of speculations about why Curtis returns, and what he plans either to say or to do. One can only guess.
* * * * * * * * * *
Theatre Ontario Festival is an annual event which brings together the "best of the best" in Ontario's community theatres for a celebration of excellence. The four participating plays are invited as the winners of the four regional festivals. Each performance is adjudicated in detail by a professional theatre artist, in sessions which enhance learning and theatre experience for the performing company and audience alike. The adjudicator this year is Carolee Mason. Along with the performances, the Festival also includes workshops on various theatre topics, Playwright-in-Person readings, and other additional events. The week culminates with a celebration brunch when awards are presented.
Theatre Ontario Festival is an annual event which brings together the "best of the best" in Ontario's community theatres for a celebration of excellence. The four participating plays are invited as the winners of the four regional festivals. Each performance is adjudicated in detail by a professional theatre artist, in sessions which enhance learning and theatre experience for the performing company and audience alike. The adjudicator this year is Carolee Mason. Along with the performances, the Festival also includes workshops on various theatre topics, Playwright-in-Person readings, and other additional events. The week culminates with a celebration brunch when awards are presented.
No comments:
Post a Comment