Mae’s dad has been diagnosed with cancer but the future is unclear. She has moved in with him, for moral support, it seems, and to bolster their neglected relationship. Mae is a lawyer, looking to sign on with a firm, as she is currently unemployed. Her father is the soul of composure. He encourages her to schedule the interviews, step up and be independent. There’s unspoken tension, but obvious warmth and affection. Mae takes up with a high school acquaintance, who has mistaken her for her sister. She encounters a mysterious cowboy apparition that is taciturn, burly, take-charge. Mae and her siblings: Hannah, Matthew and Jenny converge in their dad’s hospital room to evaluate and navigate. The familiar, familial dynamics emerge.
You might almost think that playwright Clare Barron set out to defy intuitive choices for dramas dealing with intense, elemental subjects like terminal illness, loss of a parent, of control. There is grief, but we see no agony. There are disagreements, but no meltdowns. Immediately following a sudden physical episode, Mae is thrown into a blizzard, not merely suggested, but with fierce wind and convincing, ersatz snow. The scenery fractures. The previously mentioned cowboy arrives to rescue her, though their encounters sometimes take on a vaguely sexual undercurrent. He jumps right in, which is reassuring when you’re lost. He ties her up (with a lasso) but not without her cooperation. The time comes when Mae and her dad agree to part, for the sake of sanity and genuine, mutual care. When she gets the sad news, she’s in a different room.
I am not suggesting there’s one strategy for dealing with life’s traumas in theatre, or something miraculous in simply going with one’s strengths. What makes Barron’s writing most impressive is the nuanced strategy behind her choices. Nothing is really spelled out but intellectually, viscerally, spiritually, we surmise the outcome when Mae and her siblings gather and process to comfort their father as mortality comes to claim him. There are no outbursts or fits of weeping, but no reason to believe their dad isn’t revered, cherished and deeply, deeply loved. To some degree, I believe we’re asked to fill in the blanks. To imagine the unshown. How do we present the catastrophic, the sorrowful, the scramble to make sense when someone so crucial to our well-being is taken from us? You got older invites us to participate in those special moments as this cycle begins, and so the surprise ending was not so much a surprise. But also a grace.
You got older played at Kitchen Dog Theater from February 14th -M arch 10th, 2019. 2600 N. Stemmons Freeway, Suite 180, Dallas, Texas 75207. (214) 953-1055. www.kitchendogtheater.org