Many people have a difficult time accepting the passing of loved ones. For example, after baseball Hall of Famer Ted Williams died, his son had his father’s body and head placed (separately) in cryogenic suspension, so that future medical breakthroughs could restore him to life.
If you think that’s grotesque, it’s got nothing on the events in
The Alice Seed by local playwright Michael Sepesy, now at
Cleveland Public Theatre. In this world premiere, we observe some rural
southerners dealing with family deaths. And thanks to a quietly elegant
script and some intriguing staging techniques, this production is
mesmerizing from beginning to end.
It’s a southern-gothic tale by way of the horror story your
counselor told you on your first overnight camping trip. And although
the take-away ideas may seem predictable, the pure storytelling here is
glorious.
Dolores and Judah are a married couple who recently lost their
school-age daughter Alice to cancer. But every day, mom is led
into the adjoining field by a force that feels and looks like Alice.
Judah goes along with this odd behavior for a while, but eventually
insists that his wife snap out of her mourning and go back to teaching
school.
Approaching a crisis point, Dolores encounters a foreboding
apparition, makes a desperate deal and comes away with a seed that she
plants in the field. Lo and behold, out of the ground appear the
outstretched arms of Alice. Or is it?
This phenomenon is observed by Paul, a neighbor who recently lost
his wife. Soon, he is pestering Dolores for a similar seed, so he can
grow his Sarah back to life. But when such a seed isn’t forthcoming,
his ghastly Plan B leads to tragedy.
Sepesy navigates these highly theatrical but potentially rocky
waters with skill, using humor and just enough poetry to give the piece
a chilling yet oddly evocative tone. The script is enhanced by Trad
Burns’ fantasy-forest set, accented by scrims that appear, fly away and
are backlit to reflect the play’s ever-changing moods.
Director Alison Garrigan leads her cast through these spooky
proceedings with consummate skill. As Dolores, Jackie Cummins is every
inch the bereft mother, lost in her sorrow but also sparking with fury
when defending her daughter. Mark Mayo makes Judah an interesting study
in dueling character traits, behaving both reprehensibly and with a
wounded sense of honor.
Michael Andrews-Hinders has a flat affect that works for Paul, and
Joseph Milan handles his small role as a doctor well. Nadia Tarnawsky
and Bobby Williams contribute snatches of country-western and bluegrass
tunes, along with miscellaneous sighs, thumps and chimes that add to
the mystical illusion.
The meaning of The Alice Seed is as simple as the embroidered
saying on a pillow Dolores might buy at a flea market: “A mother’s love
knows no bounds.” But the magic here is in the telling, and it is
entrancing.
SIX MONTHS ago, CPT presented No Child, a one-person
show written by Nilaja Sun and performed by Nina Domingue. This story
of a “teacher/artist” in a fictional New York City high school was good
then. But it is excellent now, in its encore presentation.
Named after the last Bush administration’s largely catastrophic
No Child Left Behind program, the play centers on the teacher, a
stand-in for the playwright herself, who leads a 10th-grade class
through the production of a play about Australian convicts.
The prison references aren’t lost on the students, who initially
rebel but are soon swayed by their visiting teacher — who almost
quits in frustration but hangs in until the end.
It’s a storyline that comes perilously close to the familiar arc of
heroic, inspirational-teacher movies like Stand and Deliver. But
it is saved by Lisa Ortenzi’s crisp direction and Domingue’s
performance. Crafting precisely etched characterizations, Domingue
switches in a flash from the teacher to surly student Shondrika to
bashful student Phillip.
Those are just three of the 16 people Domingue inhabits, and in this
production, she has shaved off some of the broader, easy-to-peg traits.
As a result, there are fewer easy laughs but deeper realizations of
character and truth.
For example, the school’s longtime janitor is the narrator and, due
to a less forced comic approach, he comes off as a touching individual.
When he proudly states that, “Those windows and chalkboards are clean
’cause I’m still here,” it speaks to a pride that goes far beyond
simple slogans.
It won’t surprise anyone that the students’ play is finally a
success. But there are some sobering moments of reality within this
dream that keep No Child grounded and often gripping.
This article appears in Oct 14-20, 2009.
