The power of
words.
Two actors sit at
a table on a dimly lit stage and read letters that their characters have sent
to each other over the years. They face forward. They do not interact, much
less touch each other. Sounds like a recipe for a boring evening, right? Wrong.
Love Letters, by A. R. Gurney, which
recently opened at Long Wharf Theatre, is a magical evening that is a tribute
to the playwright and the two fine actors, Mia Farrow and Brian Dennehy, who
easily have the audience in thrall for the full 90 minutes of the show.
As directed by
Gordon Edelstein, this bittersweet paean to letter writing and to a friendship
that stands the test of time speaks to both the mind and the heart. The two
characters, Andrew (Dennehy) and Melissa (Farrow), first meet each other in
second grade, when they begin to pass notes to each other. The correspondence
continues as the two characters mature, moving through the awkward stages of
teen-dom, when both are sent to private schools, and then on to college and to
life, with Melissa becoming an artist and Andrew going into law and then
politics.
Their
personalities are antithetical – Melissa is a free spirit, Andrew a somewhat
repressed acolyte of the status quo – and yet they find in each other a
synthesis that, though troubled over the years, is soul-satisfying.
Given his
character, Dennehy is somewhat restrained through the first half of the
evening, but Farrow is constantly moving in her chair: her feet turn in on each
other in girlish insecurity, she plays with her hair nervously, and she pouts
magnificently.
The beauty of this
piece, from a theater’s point of view, is that its staging requires little more
than a table, two chairs, and lighting sufficient for the audience to see the
actors. There’s no set, no costume changes, no special effects or projections
required.
From an actor’s
point of view, however, it’s a challenge, for there are obvious restraints, the
main one being that they are restricted to their chairs. Secondly, they cannot
interact except vocally. Thus, they must bring their characters to life
primarily through their voices and what limited body language they are allowed.
The intriguing
thing about this play, given its restrictions, and this is much to Gurney’s
credit, is that there is a very definite, old-fashioned dramatic arc to its
construction: exposition (who these characters are), several waves of rising
action (their on-again, off-again relationship through high school, college and
into their separate married lives) culminating in a climax (they finally
consummate their relationship), followed by a moving denouement (the passing of
one of the characters).
Does it work? Yes.
During the curtain call, I looked down to the row in front of me and saw a
young lady, perhaps 16 years old, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, wiping
tears from her eyes. As I exited, several patrons were also brushing at their
cheeks.
One of the reasons
it works is that there is something atavistic about this play – it evokes the
mesmerizing quality of the storyteller, the shaman-like person who would sit in
front of a fire and tell stories about the tribe, reminding those listening who
they are and where they have come from. Andrew and Melissa’s story is of that
nature, for it can’t help but evoke memories of first love, of thwarted love,
of love that defies rationality. It calls up in each one of us moments of
delight, of heartbreak, of loss, and the soft glow engendered by having shared
a life with someone. Hence, the tears.
Love Letters runs through April 10. For
tickets or more information call 203-787-4282 or go to www.longwharf.org.
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