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‘Grey House,’ a Subtle Send-up of Horror Films, That Delivers With Humor and Surprise, Starring the Fabulous Laurie Metcalf
Top shelf performances and eerie effects in lighting, sound, and on-point set design carry Levi Holloway’s horror-thriller Grey House through to its unreasoned, macabre and opaque ending, leaving the audience disturbed and unsettled in an unusual, visceral entertainment. The production, currently running at the Lyceum Theatre until September 3rd, is insightfully directed by Joe Mantello for maximum preternatural weirdness and warped grotesqueness that is also a send-up of the genre.
With sardonic humor and glimpses of the supernatural which evanesce in the twinkling of an eye, the playwright Levi Holloway shrouds the action along a path of darkness, confusion and sometime shock, until the widening road dead ends in a climax and (spoiler-alert) Max’s partner Henry vanishes, replaced by a new guest as Raleigh (Laurie Metcalf), bags packed, leaves.
Spoiler alert! Stop reading if you want to be surprised by the play. Read the rest if you are looking for clues to guide you down the dark road of Grey House.
Where and how Henry de-materializes doesn’t matter. We have witnessed his sadistic torture by a child tormentor and watched astounded at his masochistic enjoyment of pain. When he contributes his substance to create a palliative “alcoholic” drink that anesthetizes, most probably for a future unrepentant male, our fog of understanding clears a bit. Henry receives well-deserved punishment for his unspeakable past acts, that, until he entered Grey House, have gone unanswered. Is the function of this house and these female inhabitants to deliver justice? If so, married couple Max (Tatiana Maslany) and Henry (Paul Sparks) who seek help at Grey House after a car accident are “innocents” walking into a trap.
The creaking, groaning, hellish, two-story, ramshackle abode in the mountains, referred to as “Grey House,” initially appears to Max and Henry as a welcome, cozy shelter from the blizzard and their injuries. However, we know better and not just because of the advertising campaign for the show.
Previously, we have been introduced to the strange, uncanny children of the mountain cabin and their mother/caretaker Raleigh (the sensational Laurie Metcalf). Two of the “sisters” initially raise the spirits in a representative song of the region, singing a cappella. They produce an effect which is haunting and spooky. At turning points throughout the production, a total of four songs are sung: two authored by Mountain Man and the others by Bobby Gentry and Sylvan Esso. Each song is more compelling and meaningful in relation to the action, thanks to Or Matias (music supervisor and a cappella arranger).
Henry’s ironic comment that he’s seen this movie before and they “won’t make it,” lands with humor, horror and truth. We know something he doesn’t. He and Max must stay away from the two unnatural malevolents, a Wednesday Addams meme, Marlow, and her frightful companion in wickedness, the vicious, hell-bound Squirrel. In the initial moments of dialogue and action, they are daunting.
Throughout the action, both could double cast as witches in their sarcasm, sinister intentions and sub rosa text delivered in a straight-forward manner, as they allow the “words to convey the meanings.” The import of their statements are clues to what is really going on, however, the substance is easily missed because the audience is Holloway’s prey and is misdirected as she steers them down the road, and blinds them with her dark shadows of uncertainty.
Nothing is directly expressed. Of course, Henry and Max have the bulk of their interactions with these vixens, who rule the roost and who, Raleigh, their ersatz mom, calls “willful creatures,” an understatement.
As the Wednesday Adams meme who is a self-satisfied, self-admitted, proud “bitch” in the MAGA vein of “owning the libs,” Sophia Anne Caruso is terrific at suggesting the horror underneath the action. She enjoys making her guests, especially Max, feel creeped out.
Squirrel, whose damaging persona is represented by her name and her having chewed the phone chord so no calls come in or go out, is the youngest. Portrayed with insinuation and sadism in a nuanced performance of softness and brutality, Colby Kipnes is superb. She is the youthful doppleganger of The Ancient (Cyndi Coyne) and is the instrument of revenge holding “everyman” predator Hank to account in a twisted time reversal. For unspeakable acts he committed decades before, the young Squirrel and the others collaborate in effecting physical retribution which the anesthetized Henry willingly accepts as his due.
“Grey House” exists beyond time and place, the repository of the wounded in life who exist when we meet them as otherworldly beings or some other undetermined construct of humanity, which the playwright ironically leaves in the realm of uncertainty. When we meet this particular brood, Raleigh suggests others will come and go, as she in fact leaves at the conclusion with a packed suitcase, letting Max who may be a younger version of herself replace her as the caretaker.
The bottles of “moonshine” the ersatz family of women, including A1656 (the fine Alyssa Emily Marvin), and hearing-impaired Bernie (Millicent Simmonds passionately completes the witches’ coven) extract from male predators is kept refrigerated for the next visitor destined to arrive at Grey House. Like Henry he will be punished to sustain its prosperity and existence as a “living thing.”
Laurie Metcalf’s Raleigh is continually surprising in a spot-on, gorgeous performance as the hapless “mom,” who she portrays with power, insight and presence. Of all of the actors, Metcalf is the most surreal yet authentic and empathetic, as we feel for what she goes through at Grey House, though we don’t succinctly understand what we see happening before our eyes. When she is on stage, she is imminently watchable. Her lead, as subtle as it is, guides Caruso’s Marlow and Kipnes’ Squirrel to their understated ferocity which spills out in their insightment to get Henry to masochistically “fall on his own sword,” as they act out their vengeance.
Sparks’ Henry is so likable and loving in his relationship with Maslany’s Max who is the perfect wife, that we are shocked that both are not who they appear to be, Henry less so than Max. Maslany shows a sense of humor with the girls, then turns, flexing her emotional range when she expresses the appropriate terror knowing their luck has changed and she confronts evil. Sparks’ demeanor during the ordeals he is put through is nuanced. His confession is forthright and shocking in its understated delivery.
The silent characters, The Boy (Eamon Patrick O’Connell), and The Ancient (Cyndi Coyne), are vital in their gestures and presence. They add to the dynamic of “the family,” and Coyne’s Ancient is the wounded mirror image of Colby Kipnes’ Squirrel as a youth.
The production is amazing in its confabulation of mystery and opaque unreality delivered by the creative team. These include Scott Pask’s wonderful set design, Rudy Mance’s subtle costume design, Natasha Katz’s stark, atmospheric lighting design, Tom Gibbons’ house humanizing sound design, Katie Gell & Robert Pickens’ wig and hair design, Christina Grant’s makeup design. All of the actors are invested, as is Mantello in relating the otherworldly and arcane side by side with the profane, teasing out humanity in its wild derivations.
In life we see “through a glass darkly.” We receive glimpses beyond what we assume to be “reality” but know there is more that is present. What our senses apprehend, continually deceives us, though we like to believe “we know” and we are in control.
Holloway reminds us of the contradictions, the ironies, the shades of life that have no clear explanation. Indeed, the hints she drops about how the “family” of “willful creatures” operates in this spooky place are never solidified. All is intimation. The “moonshine” as Raleigh refers to it, “sold during the summer,” Marlow names “The Nectar of Dead Men,” which seems a more accurate handle by the conclusion. The duality of symbols existing on a spiritual, preternatural level are contrasted with the profane, material realm, for example when Max makes eggs (they are real-made offstage), for the “hungry, always hungry” sisters-daughters-creatures.
Thus, all is not what it seems. Holloway drives this theme home using the horror-thriller genre conveyance as a grand joke to prod us toward fear and laughter. She sends up that genre and twits us about our nightmares displayed in horror films, mirroring those found in our unconscious in dreams.
The development of the story and its characters, who are timeless archetypes reflected in literature (the good, the evil, the furies who gain vengeance), drive this work beyond genre. Thus, in an attempt to nail down Grey House and dismiss it, one may lose the deeper levels of Holloway’s symbols and complex, convoluted themes. One fascinating example is the red tapestry woven of the sinews of the historical predators, who have come to visit the cabin and whose “Nectar of Dead Men” is distilled for future use. The labels on the jars in the refrigerator tell the tale. The men’s remains we learn are in the walls, the grounds or in the basement which Squirrel frequents.
In Grey House Holloway’s vision expressed by Mantello and his creative team and enacted by the wonderful ensemble is a tonal hybrid of humor, a teasing send up of horror-thrillers, yet terrifying in its deeper representation of the patriarchy which doesn’t come off looking well in its tapestry of innards and crimes committed with impunity finally answered with rough justice, by “willful creatures.” The play is highly conceptual and may bear seeing twice because you will definitely miss connecting elements. Or just enjoy the ride and the fabulous acting and theatricality which will not disappoint.
For tickets and times go to their website https://greyhousebroadway.com/
‘Buried Child’ The New Group Production Starring Ed Harris and Amy Madigan
(L to R): Ed Harris and Paul Sparks in Sam Shepard’s “Buried Child,” directed by Scott Elliott, Off-Broadway at The New Group. Photo credit: Monique Carboni.
Secrets are the bricks that layer the foundations of family histories. Such secrets may serve as supportive bonds to keep a family together through trials and catastrophes. They may spur families to create protective walls against a foreboding and nullifying social order. They also may imprison family members in a bottomless well of pain. What is hidden often then develops a dark, spiritual life of its own to create havoc until family members finally confront its reality.
Sam Shepard’s profound, Pultizer Prize-winning tour de force Buried Child is The New Group’s new production directed by Scott Elliott, currently at The Pershing Square Signature Center. It explores the devastation when what lurks underneath becomes an implement family members use to hack at each others’ souls. As they provoke one another and stir up whirlpools of misery, what has been concealed is eventually unearthed and they must confront the fear of its loathsomeness. Only then can they employ their strength to either reconcile with the past and heal, or die.
(L to R): Paul Sparks, Ed Harris, Amy Madigan in Sam Shepard’s “Buried Child,” directed by Scott Elliott, Off-Broadway at The New Group. Photo credit: Monique Carboni
At the outset, we are introduced to the paterfamilias, Dodge (ironic name choice), sitting on the sofa as if he occupied this space without purpose and there is nowhere else for him to go. Dodge (Ed Harris) is nearly invisible.
Certainly he melds into the shabby interior of the house and the worn furniture. Except for the occasional cough and accompanying sip of whiskey from a bottle he hides under his blanket, we wouldn’t notice anything significant about his presence until he converses with his wife Halie (Amy Madigan), who is upstairs getting ready for an outing. Their exchange becomes funny when Dodge mocks her pretensions and her suggestions, i.e. for their son Bradley to cut Dodge’s hair, which Bradley always butchers. Dodge’s wit and clever personality indicate that though he may now appear to be down-and-out, he once may have been a man to be reckoned with. He well plays the role of nagged husband, tolerant of Halie’s persistent, shrill commentary about everything from the weather to son Tilden, who makes his entrance soon after Halie tells Dodge to take his pill.
The brilliance of this play is in its suggestive, interpretative aspects; it is opaque and ambiguous, yet clearly sounds a bell of alarm. Characters present bits and pieces of information like a reversed puzzle. Truths slip in and out like whispers. Unveilings abide in the off-beat comments and actions of Tilden (a terrific Paul Sparks) and Bradley (the fine Rich Sommer), and in the contradictions posed by Dodge about the past and present. Glimmers of light reveal key themes about the flawed nature of human beings and their unsatisfying relationships, of the oppressiveness of fearful secrets that are not allowed to be uttered or expurgated, of the resulting soul sickness that chokes off vitality.
As Shepard brings this family to us through their conversations and clashes, we divine the background story, of a brokenness that overwhelms all of the sons and Dodge, and of a protective, hard lacquer that glistens from Halie’s persona as she steps quickly through time without looking to the right or left and especially not into the past.
(L to R): Rich Sommer, Taissa Farmiga, Paul Sparks in Sam Shepard’s “Buried Child,” directed by Scott Elliott, Off-Broadway at The New Group. Photo credit: Monique Carboni.
Tilden, once an All-American halfback, is child-like, dense, withdrawn: these may be weaknesses caused by that “trouble in Mexico” a while ago. The obstreperous Bradley was careless with a chainsaw and chopped off his leg.
Bradley’s movement “to go far” has ended; he must wear a prosthetic device to go anywhere. The most promising son, Ansel, died in the military, and Halie, who meets with inoffensive, smarmy Father Dewis (Larry Pine) to discuss the placement of his statue in the community, brings the priest in for tea and stirs havoc. Clearly, Halie has sought religion to stave off the darkness.
Shepard’s writing is precisely rendered. He wanders his characters through a filtered catastrophe that they have long suppressed. Their meanderings with each other are filled with humor, thematic layers, poetry, and symbolism. The dramatic action is interior; when Tilden, Bradley, or Halie appear, disappear, and interact, the molecules have been stirred, the atmosphere changes, and tensions strain. There is the sometimes gentle, sometimes antagonistic sparring among the four. And Dodge is central; he grounds all who enter and leave with brusque ease. He is the family linchpin, and only he will be able to exhume what sickens in all of them when the time is ready.
(L to R): Taissa Farmiga, Ed Harris, Rich Sommer, Amy Madigan, Larry Pine in Sam Shepard’s “Buried Child,” directed by Scott Elliott, Off-Broadway at The New Group. Photo credit: Monique Carboni.
Shepard’s grand metaphor of the harvest, sown in the past and now ready to be picked and enjoyed, is spiritual, interpretive, and surreal. It is a harvest seen and recognized by some in the family and not others, much as truth and circumstances are perceived and interpreted individualistically. Shepard combines this metaphor with an even greater one, a human embodiment of the harvest in the characterization of Vince (Tilden’s son whom no one initially acknowledges or seems to remember), and his girlfriend Shelly (Taissa Farmiga is appropriately sharp and intrusive), whose curiosity eventually prompts Dodge to reveal that which has been rotting the foundations of their family relationships and particularly Dodge’s soul.
(L to R): Taissa Farmiga, Nat Wolff, Ed Harris in Sam Shepard’s “Buried Child,” directed by Scott Elliott, Off-Broadway at The New Group. Photo credit: Monique Carboni
That Vince (a portentous and dangerous Nat Wolff) and Shelly appear at precisely the right moment when the crops are ready to be harvested is a singular mystery answered by the play’s conclusion. Dodge finally discloses the secret of the fields and acknowledges that he is no longer afraid; it is then that the reckoning comes. Shepard emphasizes in Buried Child that there indeed is a season for everything. And regardless of whether we want to acknowledge it, the ripeness of fulfilled truth eventually is visited on a family, though it may skip a generation or two.
This is a magnificent production, prodigiously acted by the ensemble cast and brilliantly conceived, staged, and designed by Scott Elliott and his team. The production throbs with tension. The undercurrents vibrate throughout. Above all the character portrayals balance evenly to create a living portrait of the poignancy of human families.
Ed Harris resides in Dodge with sustained concentration and moment-to-moment precision, even as the audience shuffles in and fumbles around for their seats (before the play begins). Harris embodies the character’s rough-edged, blunt and ironic persona and it is difficult to take one’s eyes off of him. His seamless sliding underneath Dodge’s skin is without equal. Amy Madigan as Halie is his perfect counterpart, striking and glorious one moment and in the next shrew-like and high-pitched as if stretched to the point of breaking.
Indeed, Elliott has guided this cast into taut perfection; Ed Harris, Amy Madigan, Paul Sparks, Taissa Farmiga, Rich Sommer, Nat Wolff and Larry Pine would not be as alive in their characters as they are if the balance and the pressure were not tuned to a proper pitch by each actor’s work.
Buried Child is beyond memorable. It is is one for the ages. The New Group production runs until April 3 at Pershing Square Signature Center.
CAROLE DI TOSTI 