Mad House: Monstrous Siblings & Morphine
Bill Pullman & David Harbour
Written by A Robinson
~
Boy, was I wrong.
As the lights faded to blackout, I see two bodies walk on stage and take their places. I am instantly transfixed with anticipation when the lights brighten and confirm who I already know I'm looking at. As the lights raise and do just that, I am in disbelief. Bill Pullman, this time far frailer and collapsed than when I saw him last on stage, three years ago in All My Sons at The Old Vic - the best production I've ever seen- and David Harbour. A man who's presence has been (unknowingly) so prolific in my media consumption the past few months due to the phenomenon that is Stranger Things Season 4. This threw me a curveball, and in my starstruck state I find tears falling from my eyes. As they exchange the first few lines of dialogue, I am stuck in a daze of true amazement and shock, in the best possible way. I couldn't have anticipated the intensity of reaction as these were two actors that I admired considerably, but nor was I in the presence of my true idol, one Ms Streep. Nevertheless, my reaction wasn't far off. As my weepiness subsided (for now) I took in the setting of the play as these characters were unfolding it.
The emotional temperature was a frantic one; throttling from icy cold and demure to blistering rage and angst, the former mainly at the hands of Pullman, the latter at the hands of Harbour. What occurred was a tragic family in a tragic setting, mostly crumbling, rural America- a recognisable set up to other modern American family dramas, from Shepard's Buried Child to my personal favourite, August: Osage County by Tracy Letts. The play is stricken by dysfunction with an impending sense of the inevitable and the uncertain in equal measure: inevitable that the death of withering patriarch Daniel (Pullman) was going to come, but the great uncertainty of when and how. This effortlessly acts as the catalyst for the rife family drama as reunions occur, secrets are revealed and heartbreak ensues. What is at the heart of this dark comedic drama, though, is Harbour, and his portrayal of Michael.
Unclear where in the sequence of the three siblings he lies, Michael begins, and aptly ends the play (you know if you know) as his father's sole caregiver. That is of course until the wonderful arrival of hospice nurse Lillian, beautifully breathed to life by Akiya Henry, arrives at the decaying home and firmly gives Daniel not the care he wants, but the care he deserves. What we see as Michael sarcastically parries his father's antagonistic jabs is a son who is present and understands giving his dying father care is necessary and the morally right thing to do, yet an underlying unease and rage is bubbling away beneath the surface, and we no longer get the sense that this is a man who is at all concerned with morals. It's not long at all until this rises above the surface in plain view of the audience, as it will continue to do so multiple times throughout the play, thus beginning the assumption that there is something deeper going on with Michael. His mental health, past present and future, frequently appears in conversation; be it slandered, admitted, appreciated, or degraded. It is never clear what mental health issue Michael suffered from, until he shares with Lillian he was diagnosed schizophrenic during his time at the mental hospital- the biggest past event that is referenced the most by the characters. However, the most prominent display of instability of any kind, is Michael's frequent outbursts of rage, knowingly identified and dealt with thus, as he knows how to counter them with removing himself from the room where the source of his anger lies (almost always with another family member) and moving to the porch.
After the tumultuous albeit playful rapport between embittered father and troubled son is established, we meet Michael's other brother, Nedward, who swanders in as an overachieving, high earning sibling who isn't exempt from his own chip on his shoulder. Unashamedly making the reason for his presence known, to sniff out the deed to the house and collect whatever inheritance he thinks he's owed, his presence becomes a secondary, non-threatening one. The dynamic is then dreadfully disrupted as the curtain falls upon the arrival of their sister, Pam. A woman whose demeanour dreadfully worsens from emotionally cold yet pragmatic to one of unforgiveable cruelty, in the most heart-breaking way.
After a flurry of activity and accusations the night of Pam's arrival, in which she meets her father with a head injury on the floor with contraband whiskey in his system, the three siblings yell their way through their father's affairs. After degrading and threatening Lillian, claiming her care of Daniel to be negligent, despite Pam not being present this entire time, Michael learns of a deeply upsetting truth: his mother, whom died of cancer years ago whilst Michael was in the hospital, was desperate to see her son, the apple of her eye much to the chagrin of her other children, yet Pam made certain that would never happen, and their mother died without Michael having a chance to say goodbye.
Callous and unfathomable as that seems, she holds no remorse for her actions and justifies herself out of blame, taunting Michael and blaming his mental state as the reason; making Pam the second family member to openly blame him for their mother's death, effortlessly claiming "you killed her". After it's been made clear that Pam and Nedward, who of course was in on this past wrongdoing and did nothing, both intend to discredit Michael as power of attorney and divide the inheritance between them, there are a few quiet, undisturbed moments between the three, seemingly free of trauma. After memories were shared previously of Michael's unfortunate upbringing, suffering terribly from bullies who made fun of him (understandably cultivating his anger issues) and who tirelessly broke the pencils that his mother lovingly gave to him every morning, Michael shares that his mother left him one last pencil. Pam asks to see it, he asks for it back, she jokingly teases it away from him, taunting him - as I'm writing this my blood is boiling- and then in an act of most dire cruelty, snaps it forcefully in front of his face.
Michael's rage fails to be entirely contained, and she screams at him that she intends to use this outburst as evidence of his unfit mental state, and send him back to the "loony bin" so that he can never get his inheritance. Her sickening personage knows no bounds, as she then films him during his fit of rage, as evidence. Her own brother. Her own god damn suffering brother.
Pullman & Harbour
Climax over, and entering the dénouement of the piece, we see the following morning on the porch as Michael packs his things and seeks to leave before his brother or sister awaken. Sorely missed from the dramatic intensity of the past half an hour, Daniel shakenly emerges through the door and situates himself in a wheelchair as his son sits on the step beside him. A dying man, who previously made no attempts to die, engages in his regular quips and jabs at his son, but his mental sharpness has not fully dissipated, as we get the sense he knows the severity of what occurred the previous night in his absence. Suddenly desperate at his sons imminent departure, he shows his hand by revealing the unseen heralded document, in his possession this entire time: the deed to the house, left, in it's entirety, solely to Michael, by his mother. This stops Michael in his tracks, but he doesn't jump at the bait initially- understandable, as the emotional turmoil this family inflicted upon him in the last 24 hours is enough to deflate anyone, let alone the years of betrayal and conspiracy that was uncovered too. As he is unwilling to play his father's anticipated game, we learn that there is no game. Daniel is willingly giving Michael what is his. On one condition.
We see a tiny bottle appear out of his oxygen bag, with a syringe. Admittedly stolen from Lillian's medical bag, Daniel asks if his son will do the action of injecting his father with a fatal dose of morphine. After brief deliberation, and a sense of urgency as the siblings will no doubt awaken within the next few minutes, we know this has to be done now, or not at all. Michael, through gritted teeth, agrees, and writes a suicide note on the back of the deed, both brief and bland in equal measure. Much to Daniel's comedic upset, he grabs the pencil and amends his own suicide note, adding the touching, unexpected sentence "Michael isn't crazy, and never was" before signing his name. In a riveting flash of moments, we see Michael stand over his father, pray, and give his father a strong kiss on his head, before completing the action.
For someone who has never had the fortune or misfortune (depends on who you ask) to see someone pass before my own eyes, but someone who knows grief, there are no words for what this scene was. Pullman was so skilful, so delicate, so attuned that this death scene stands in it's own stead of one of considerable poignancy, realism, and heart. There are no words. It was the biggest moment of the play, and yet was not once acted or projected bigger than it was; a silent passing. An astonishing feat of acting.
As the siblings rush down and discover their father dead, we don't see Michael rightfully gloat and shove his rightful prosperity in their monstrous, underserving faces- rather it ends on a cliff hanger, a mid sentence panic from his sister in an attempt to rectify the situation. We don't see Michael leave, we don't see his siblings' comeuppance, we don't see Lillian's return: just as it did for Daniel, it snaps to black.
As I stood giving a violent ovation to the cast, with unashamed hysterical tears running down my face, I felt truly alive and connected to the play that had just exploded before me. It would be physically impossible to possess a stronger connection as an audience member to a piece as I did watching this, which in itself is a great rarity, but when it does happen... boy, is it fucking sensational.