Compelling “Rabbit Hole” tale wrings emotions
David Lindsay-Abaire’s “Rabbit Hole” is so powerful, so emotionally true and so well-performed, you’ll walk out feeling – there’s no other way to put it – devastated.
But not depressed. This play is too good for that.
The play evokes powerful emotions not because of manipulation, but because of the honesty of the playwright and the cast. They put us into the shoes of a family dealing with a nightmare: the accidental death of their 4-year-old boy.
The sheer, unflinching power of this play earned it the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for drama. If you go see “Rabbit Hole” – and I highly recommend you do – you will understand why. If an artist’s goal is to tell the truth, Lindsay-Abaire and director Tralen Doler have done so unflinchingly and with utmost craft.
Here’s what “truth” in the theater feels like: You forget you are in the theater. You are in Becca and Howie’s living room for two hours, going through nearly all five stages of grief. It feels so real that I don’t know if a person who had actually been through this trauma could sit through it. Yet they should.
That’s because, ultimately, “Rabbit Hole” has a deep empathy for the humanity of these flawed characters. It understands, as Nat – the grandmother played well by Kathie Doyle-Lipe – says, that the pain never really goes away, it just changes. The pain becomes what they have instead of their son; they need to hold on to it. And “that is (and here Doyle-Lipe pauses for exactly the right beat) … fine.”
This feeling of truth is enhanced by an exceptional cast of five, anchored by Page Byers and Michael Weaver as Becca and Howie, the parents. Caryn Hoaglund immerses herself completely in the role of Izzy, Becca’s punkish ne’er-do-well sister, who has the bad timing to get pregnant just months after the little boy’s death.
Doyle-Lipe gets some comic mileage out of her role as the spacey-but-down-to-earth grandma, yet where she really impresses is in her brilliant scene with Becca as they perform the painful yet cathartic task of clearing out the little boy’s old bedroom. She compares the pain to having “a brick in our pocket.” Sometimes you can forget it’s there, yet it’s not long before you feel it again and think, “Oh … that.”
This scene is sensitively acted as well by Byers, who emerges as the emotional center of this play. She refuses to linger over a pair of the little boy’s shoes and says, “Quick, like a Band-aid.”
Weaver will surprise those who associate him with comic roles. The grief and confusion are written on his face during his fraught exchanges with his wife and their misunderstandings – and much of the play revolves around those misunderstandings.
A crucial supporting performance – as Jason, the high-schooler who ran over the little boy, who ran into the street chasing his dog – is delivered with letter-perfect nuance by Jimmy-James Pendleton. His monologue, in which he reads a letter of apology, is delivered with exactly the right amount of hesitation, sorrow, regret and, ultimately, youthful resiliency.
Doler stages this scene powerfully, with Jason standing in a pool of light, front and center, nearly touching the audience. I dare anybody not to be moved, or should I say devastated, by this scene.
Yet it’s another scene, between Jason and Becca, which encapsulates everything that is right about this production. Jason and Becca sit on opposite sides of a couch, as Jason awkwardly tries to get something off his chest. Becca is uncomfortable, hand reaching to the back of her neck, yet Byers is too good to simply display standard discomfort. She is a woman trying to hide her discomfort, mustering every ounce of her will to convey the message, “It’s OK. It wasn’t your fault.”
And what horrible secret does Jason need to get off his chest? He might have been going faster than the 30-mph limit; maybe 32 or 33.
John Hofland’s outstanding set design contributes materially to the emotional impact, with giant images of the boy looming from every wall. His image will always loom over this family, yet with time, that image may evoke not sorrow, but a smile.