February
4, 2004
Melissa James Gibson: Lady of the Flies
Christina Kirk and
Thomas Jay Ryan in Suitcase
(Photo © David Gochfeld)
One of the intriguing things about the most talented—and welcome—new
playwright, Melissa
James Gibson, is that we don’t know anything about her. Well, I don’t. Who is
she? We could, of course, Google her. But that would spoil the mystery. She
seems, in any case, to enjoy a certain unfashionable anonymity. All we know—and
need to know—about her is found in her playful, refreshingly unpredictable
comedies about growing up miserable.
Ms. Gibson might be a little old lady in Des Moines, for all we know, or
happily married with three bonny kids. The "James" in Melissa James
Gibson might suggest a marriage. But on the evidence of her plays, she’s a
quirky thirtysomething given to lassitude and spying on her neighbors; a wry
post-graduate sunk in despair with a good dictionary; or a lost, romantic nostalgiac
obsessed with those drips known as men, the Meaning of Life and the
correct use of "albeit."
Albeit Ms. Gibson came from nowhere three seasons ago with her
eccentrically titled play [sic], it was clear at first sight that she is
a dramatist who surprises and delights us. The witty, unusual
breakthrough—brilliantly staged by Daniel Aukin at the tiny Soho Rep—was a
wholly original take on urban friendship and the comedy of manners, a
contemporary Design for Living expressed in articulate weirdness. Ms.
Gibson’s latest play, Suitcase, again directed by Mr. Aukin, is more
ambitious and riskier in its neurotic way, and though it wobbles nuttily from
time to time, we’re left again with the pleasure of this fine playwright’s
company.
Take the full title of the play—the modernist mouthful Suitcase or,
those that resemble flies from a distance. The "suitcase"
suggests baggage and transition, of course; the "flies"—a note in the
script informs us—are Ms. Gibson’s tribute to Jorge Luis Borges’ essay
"The Analytical Language of John Wilkins" (from his Other
Inquisitions: 1937-1952), in which scholarly reference is made to a Chinese
encyclopedia entitled Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge. It is
written there that animals are divided into categories, including mermaids,
those that have just broken a flower vase, and those that resemble flies
from a distance.
The flies scrutinized in Ms. Gibson’s Suitcase are two graduate
students who can’t finish their futile dissertations and won’t let their clingy
boyfriends into their apartments. Outwardly, we might be in a conventional
sitcom with loopy overtones. Sallie and Jen phone each other often and
communicate through their intercoms with Lyle and Karl, the pathetic boyfriends
abandoned on the stairwell. It’s the first intercom romance I’ve seen.
Sometimes all four of them speak at the same time, which is confusing.
The static of a silent intercom tells us more about Ms. Gibson’s defensive,
needy women living in messy, stubborn isolation.
Their dissertations are "un-going" in an "ongoing"
sort of way. Sallie is failing to write hers on a typewriter,
incidentally. You remember typewriters? Shakespeare used one. They go clack-clack-clack!
They go thud. Typewriters no longer belong; they have no place in the
world, like a horse and buggy.
Her frequently shredded dissertation happens to be about alternative
means of storytelling. Aha! Ms. Gibson’s calling card is surely the same. After
all, she begins and ends Suitcase with a dopey, sweet song from her
mismatched couples. "I wonder," goes the mordant lyric, "how we
were before we weren’t …. "
Ms. Gibson’s fondness for wordplay, linguistic quibbles, verbal tics and
misunderstanding—"yucky" for ‘lucky"—are part of the fun. Then
again, a prissy preoccupation with syntax can disguise real feeling as surely
as the articulate smartness here substitutes for frayed emotion. Only Ms.
Gibson would have a character living in self-described "semi-enlightened
limbo" complain to her laboriously predictable boyfriend, "You’re
such a causal guy"—and get away with it!
And who else would have the aggrieved boyfriend hit back with:
"Your fear of unfortunate phrases is ruining our relationship … !"
Ms. Gibson has a surprising mind, as I say. After all, the
lunatic dissertation of her other trapped heroine, Jen, is about garbage found
in neighbors’ bins. (She believes that what we discard is far more interesting
than what we keep, and on the evidence of her life, she’s right.) Her
enslaved, forlorn boyfriend brings her suitcases of the stuff—not that she’s
grateful. "I’m complicated," she protests. "You always said you
like complicated women."
"Women who are complicated in a FUN way," he replies.
Jen’s prize piece of garbage—evidence of some kind of life out there—is
a found tape-recording made by a girl named Lizzie during various bickering
family Christmases. Happy Xmas—a suicidal time of the year. We hear Lizzie as a
child excitedly opening some gift; then growing up: "Please, somebody get
me out of this house"; then as a 37-year-old divorcée. "Um, well it’s
been an uneventful couple of decades, I guess. Dad’s mixing up some eggnog in
the kitchen right now. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing …. "
Meanwhile, Sallie diverts herself by spying through binoculars on her
neighbors across the way, like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. They’re
showing home movies of a happy, nice and normal child with her dad.
"Do you ever wonder," Sallie asks later, "what happens to all
those little girls at weddings who slide across the floor in their stocking
feet?"
Suitcase is a near farce of graduate angst and
desperation, but its heart is all about lost childhood and innocence. It is
about the melancholy of growing up and a nostalgia for a younger, happier time,
real or imagined—for "how we were before we weren’t."
If that sounds bleak, it is. "If one could only refrain / from
one’s refrain," goes Ms. Gibson’s surprising epilogue in maudlin, sweet
song. And the closing lyric—"Sometimes small potatoes / taste the
best"—isn’t the most romantically uplifting I’ve heard lately. But Ms.
Gibson, jumping through hoops as she figures out the unpredictable absurdity of
life, is too bright to be content, and her wit and misanthropy delight us just
the same.
The ensemble of Suitcase couldn’t be better. Let’s name the
excellent Christina Kirk, Colleen Werthmann, Thomas Jay Ryan and Jeremy Shamos.
Mr. Aukin and his scenic designer, Louisa Thompson, have once again conjured up
a modernist urban landscape that’s desolate and magical, like an art
installation with real, live, peculiar people. I don’t know where Melissa James
Gibson is going from here, but I’ll be there.