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Vigil
runs at the Bluma Appel Theatre, St. Lawrence Centre, until Nov. 13, 2004

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By Alidė Kohlhaas

Morris Panych is fast becoming one of this country's better known playwrights, aside from also being one of its more quirky directors. When you combine the two aspects of his talents, you can be sure you are in for an evening' entertainment of a very unusual kind, as CanStage' current production of Vigil proves to be. It is an evening well spent. Vigil is extraordinary in that it has the unusual feel of a piece of music for two pianos in which one is assigned the whole melody, while the other—quite out-of-tune one—pipes in now and then with the odd squeaking high note for accent.

The play's name is self-explanatory. It concerns a vigil, though a very peculiar one. A rather neurotic young man has been summoned to the apparent deathbed of an aunt, whom he has not seen or heard from in 30 years. Brent Carver plays Kemp, and Martha Henry, Grace, the aunt. It takes courage to play either role, and first-rate ability. Both performers, of course, possess these qualities.

Carver is the piano that plays the full score, Henry the almost silent, ill-tuned one. He performs a constant monologue highlighted by Henry's silent facial expressions. Even the flick of the eyes convey her message clearly. This is not easy to do. Only in the second half of the production does she make the odd sound, and finally even speaks a full line.

While a vigil does not imply comedy, in Panych's strange bend of theatrical mind, the play is just that, a strangely dark, yet also light comedy of manners and of errors.

The nephew has come to the aunt's ramshackled home with the assumption that her death is eminent. But days turn into weeks and then into months. The passage of time is indicated through quick blackouts. Much to Kemp's frustration, the seasons come and go. Just how he expresses this frustration at its ultimate comic moments won't be revealed here, but let it suffice to say that he becomes the victim of his own overwrought imagination.

In Vigil, Panych proves to be a master of one-liners, which elicit laughs not just because of the choice of words, but because of the unexpected nature of the statements. Kemp expresses his strange view of the world, and of the circumstance in which he finds himself, with remarkable candor. They are lines we would all sometimes love to utter at bothersome relatives, but daren't. Henry captures the silence of an aging, reclusive woman to perfection. Her face mirrors not only bewilderment at her nephew's constant stream of words and his odd behavior, but she also displays an ability to connive him into staying. It is a wonderful performance.

While there appears to be animosity between the two, the final outcome is an unsentimental human connection that comes as a surprise. In fact, Panych builds in several surprises into the second half of the Vigil, one of which is a bit macabre—shades of Hitchcock's Psycho—which make this tale of two discontents reach a quite natural and dare one say "happy" ending.

All of the action takes place in the old lady's bedroom, on a set that mirrors the odd relationship of the two characters. Ken MacDonald produced an attic room that could be a Paris studio with all of its windows papered over, yet the architecture of the two lopsided side entrances to this attic are vintage 19th century Canadian gothic. We are, therefore, placed in a timeless, undefined space that allows us to connect to the characters without having to be tied to them.

Photos: Lucas Oleniuk


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