Death and the Matron: Solas Nua's Woman and Scarecrow
Rena Cherry Brown, Jennifer Mendenhall, and Nanna Ingvarsson in Solas Nua's production of Marina Carr's "Woman and Scarecrow."
Death is never far away in Marina Carr's play. In fact, it spends the bulk of the production locked in a wardrobe, occasionally rattling and rumbling to be let out to claim another soul. The Woman's only protection from the black-feathered and black-lit apparition behind those doors is her Scarecrow, who is a manifestation of her subconscious, or perhaps her soul, or perhaps her guardian angel. Carr doesn't really explain, other to say that Scarecrow has been with the Woman from the beginning, having latched onto her at the "weaver's throne." Your own perception of what she is will depend largely upon your own beliefs and your familiarity with Celtic mythology, which is as much at play here as classical Greek drama is in Carr's earlier work. What is important is that Scarecrow seems able, temporarily at least, to beat Death back into that wardrobe long enough to give the Woman just a little more time on this plane — time the two of them use to attempt to untie the knotty mess of familial dysfunction, infidelity, and squandered potential that has surrounded the Woman — and, by extension, Scarecrow — all her life. Their ongoing conversations and reminiscences take up most of the show's two hour, fifteen minute running time, typified by a sisterly love undercut by resentments borne of decades of disappointments.
Two-plus hours spent in one room, airing a lifetime of dirty laundry with your lead actor confined to bed, seems in part a sly challenge from playwright to cast and crew to actually make something dynamic out of such a static setup. Or perhaps it's simply confidence on Carr's part that her words and the Woman's story will be compelling enough to forestall audience restlessness. As to the first point, Solas Nua's production more than meets the challenge. The spare set of the Woman's room is surrounded by the bare branches of a bitter Irish winter; Death is not just in the wardrobe, but encroaching on the room itself from outside in. But there is an ethereal comfort within those stark branches, the set and costumes done entirely in white, soft grays and silvers. The Woman's room seems ready to transport her to heaven, if it's not already halfway there. And when reality comes through the bedroom door, breaking her out of the reverie (or pained delusion) of her talks with Scarecrow, it's in the form of her husband ("Him") and her severe Auntie Ah, both of whom are clad in jarring blacks and reds. All four actors bring Carr's text to life masterfully, particularly Jennifer Mendenhall as the Woman; she's armed herself with an impressive array of glares and scowls that perfectly heighten the blackly comic elements of her banter with Scarecrow and her visitors, and world-weary eyes that reveal a woman at her breaking point, afraid of both death and of facing up to her own life.
But it's Carr's play itself that really keeps things moving with relentless pace in Woman and Scarecrow. The stillness on stage can't hide the fact that the work's energy, like the Woman's life, is barreling towards its inevitable end at a frightening speed. It's all too fast, as one imagines one's final hours must be, and the nostalgia and regret that lace much of the dialogue are more than enough excuse to make believable the gorgeous flourishes that permeate the lines. If you can't be poetically dramatic in preparation for death, when can you?
Of course, death scenes that manage to avoid spilling over into melodrama are hard to come by, and this is one pitfall that even Carr doesn't wholly avoid. The end of the play careens into a dark and horrific place that seems slightly out of step with what's come before. And it's complicated by director Des Kennedy's only clumsy bit of staging, moving the action out of the bed — which has been the focal point all night — to a spot downstage on the floor that might as well be invisible for those in the back rows of Flashpoint Gallery's tiny Mead Theater Lab. But it's a minor complaint in a work this heartwrenchingly beautiful. And it may just be that this particular unsatisfying end, like death itself, is simply inevitable.
Presented by Solas Nua at Flashpoint's Mead Theatre Lab through May 31st, Thursday - Saturday at 8 p.m., Sunday at 3 p.m.