Review: THE THRUSH AND THE WOODPECKER at Kitchen Dog Theater

18.1% of adults in the United States are suffering with a diagnosed mental illness. This number does not include substance abuse and it's even higher for women: 21.8%. With these statistics, it's easy to see why so many contemplate how these illnesses might play out in the daily lives of those who are ill, and particularly in the lives of loved ones. The Thrush and the Woodpecker, a play by Steve Yockey and produced by Kitchen Dog Theater in residence at The Undermain Theatre, explores this reality on a deeply personal level as the two primary characters, Brenda Hendricks and Róisín Danner, confront each other with conflicting and often warped realities.

Brenda's son, a young man by the name of Noah Hendricks, is on the path toward graduating from a prestigious, expensive, private university, when he is expelled from school because of an act of vandalism. At least that's the answer you'll get if you ask his mother. Some might call it extremely benign eco-terrorism, but her son explains that he was destroying university property as a protest to the unnecessary light pollution: a sort of reactionary support for astronomy. Noah is developing a voice, his own voice, albeit confused, and Brenda, a mother demonstrating classic symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder, sees her son as an extension of herself. Brenda is immediately concerned with how this situation will make her appear to others. She is determined to make Noah fix this problem instantaneously. The first part of the play is a desperate attack by a narcissistic mother on her enabling son who clearly has learned to survive by attempting to please his mother in every moment. From her first minutes on stage, Brenda cynically and passive-aggressively damages her son. She's condescending, she's vindictive, and she needs him to succeed because she directly sees his success as representative of her own. In a cold, awkward moment, Brenda puts her hand on Noah's shoulder, and they grasp hands for only a few short seconds before she pulls away, displaying an aversion to physical touch and physical affection and a clear lack of empathic emotion. Brenda is incapable of seeing anything from Noah's perspective and the damage this does to his sense of self-worth is quite obvious.

Brenda leaves for the store and Róisín Danner, played by Diane Worman, knocks on the front door. As Noah opens the corpulent entry, Róisín let's herself in, claiming to know his mother from long ago. During their engaging interaction and the subsequent confrontation between Róisín and Brenda, much is revealed, much is discovered and many questions arise. Some are answered and others drift off into surrealism. What occurs between these two mentally unstable women will no doubt surprise and intrigue you. Ms. Worman delivers a powerful performance, embodying all of the physicality of her character's mental illness, yet never creating a caricature. Her deranged smile and piercing eyes speak more than any words can iterate. From the moment she enters the stage, Róisín's manic energy is confounding. Even her entrance seems almost to be a grand affair. Her mood shifts quite drastically, from angry and irritable to euphoric and almost happy. She certainly laughs with a peculiarity worthy of any good horror story. Hearing a few other examples from the play, I've come to the conclusion that Róisín is clearly bipolar with, perhaps, some overwhelming PTSD. Ms. Worman brought the show to a much deeper level when she shows up, to a level that demands the wrath of a descent of woodpeckers. The profound confusion that Róisín expresses when discovering her own tears for the first time in quite a while, speaks immensely about the state of her mind. She feels her tears with her fingers and says with perplexity, "I didn't know I could still cry."

When she returns, Brenda's personality drastically collides with Róisín's. A dark storm envelopes the room and a great deal of history and pain is revealed. Matching up a narcissist with the grandiosity that comes with mania and possibly psychosis provides for a fascinating and absorbing drama filled with uncertainty. This beautifully devised struggle between these two occasionally sympathetic and generally contemptible characters has developed into a highly engaging performance. Ultimately, you must throw your assumptions out the door in order to process what you are given.

Scott Osborne created a set that is quite simple. We are located inside the living room in the home of Brenda Hendricks. The walls are a grey stucco-style and painfully bare. The oversized wooden door, taking the shape of an arc, only contributes to this austerity. Not a single object decorates the walls, and the decorations that do exist, a couple of photos and a figurine of a black cat, are quick and easy, indicating little intention of permanency. In the center rests a short blue couch and a matching armchair. The side table hosts a coffee mug, a framed photo, books, and a few small notebooks. Evidently, this house is lived in, but it's not a home. The set fits perfectly with the word Noah uses to describe his life: "nomadic." This is not the home of someone who intends to stay for too long. Before the show starts, at a certain point, if you are keenly aware, or at least stop chatting with your friend for long enough, you realize that from the moment the house doors opened the faint sounds of birds chirping can be heard. The same chirping is heard during scene transitions, when the stage is empty. The sounds of birds become increasingly present and significant as the play progresses. As soon as those sounds hit my brain, my mind drifted immediately to Hitchcock's 1963 film, the classic horror, The Birds. I suspected, and perhaps was even promised, some element of terror from the beginning, and I was not disappointed.

The woodpeckers appear to symbolize an eruption of rage. The play's first part is an uncomfortable buildup of tension between Noah and Brenda. These characters are so guarded, so emotionally misconnected from each other that ultimately something is expected to erupt. The motif of birds, specifically woodpeckers, and its associated sounds, chirping, and knocking, is a stimulating choice. Even the woodpecker jargon we are taught during the play is poignant: a group of woodpeckers is called a descent and is clearly symbolic of the main characters' descents into madness.

Kristin McCollum and Carson Wright begin the play with a dynamic energy, filled with tension and frustration. Ms. McCollum plays a quick-talking and intelligent narcissist and she does this quite well. I truly felt like I was gazing upon the people I know who fit that description. Mr. Wright's character, also a quick-talker and highly intelligent, but born with an ear to listen to others, is fully embraced by the actor. Mr. Wright does an exceptional job demonstrating the pain and damage that can come from living with a person suffering from a mental illness. Ms. Worman plays a woman on the edge of a downward spiral quite well, particularly with her heartfelt yet malevolent smile, which draws you in and makes you want to trust her, even though you know you shouldn't. The capable skills and the emotional intelligence of these three actors carried this play and kept it alive. The show runs through Sunday, June 25th at the Undermain Theatre. For tickets and information visit www.kitchendogtheater.org.

Photo courtesy of Kitchen Dog Theater

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