Shotgun
Players' Skylight: Onions, Anguish, and More
Amy Marie Boulanger
April 6, 8:44 PM
Bay
Area Examiner
Squalid doors, second-hand furniture, a window framed
with snow, a bleak kitchenette, throw rugs suggesting
a hint of hominess. Reminiscent of my first studio
apartment, this is the Ashby Stage set for the current
Shotgun Players production of Skylight by
David Hare. Al Green filters from the speakers in
the dusky renovated church supported by sturdy wood
arches. Sofas edge the set, where select audience
members are afforded an up close and personal peek
into the lives of the characters soon to appear.
Traffic sounds. The jangle of keys from the other
side of the apartment door. Kyra is in, going about
an evidently nightly routine, canvas bags dangling
from arms, papers clenched between teeth, she appears
tired and bogged down by life. At once an intrusive,
slightly uneasy sense overtakes me, akin to glancing
across the way to spot a neighbor eating peanut butter
from the jar.
Seated mid-way, nearly center of the house, I have
not only a good view into Kyra’s apartment,
but also the pleasure of examining the faces directly
across the way. Some of those lucky souls who got
sofa seating. An odd experience, and very gratifying,
to observe the reactions of others, watching the flicker
of recognition from a line or action (something resonating
within) and the alternating smiles and furrowed brows
and chins cupped in palms. People attentive, listening.
How can we not be? Kyra’s entrance, heavy with
the weight of routine, signaling a night like so many
others, rings familiar. But the night will prove to
be a break from the routine. But we don’t know
that yet.
Enter: the arrival of two men, father and son. In
the course of one evening Kyra, a London school teacher,
will be forced to confront a past she thought she
had left behind. It will be a tense night, between
swelling bursts of anger to silent, awkward downtimes,
the kind that make you feel especially intrusive,
the I’ve-heard-too-much-should-I-tiptoe-out-of-here-kind?
But you can’t. You don’t. You want to
see more.
I am fully invested in the story of Kyra and Tom,
her old lover, in their attempt to analyze and re-visit
their past, unconventional relationship while addressing
the possibility of a future together. Framed by the
visit of Tom’s son, Edward, the story unfolds,
mapping a wide terrain of emotional territory, with
amazing performances by the cast.
This is what theater is all about. Sitting here, my
own chin nestled firmly in my palm, I ride the waves
of rapt attention and self-reflection. Not only do
I find myself caring about these characters, rooting
at times for one, then the other, their angry outbursts
like a fiery debate. I also discover some close-to-home
moments that touch a nerve within me.
And that is theater at its best. To me, at least.
This is not a loud, heavily cast, dazzling-effects
type of show. This is an intimate and heart-rending
look at life, taking a slice of it and serving it
right there in front of our eyes. This is intensity
and love and heartbreak and pain and clashing ideals.
I left the theater feeling somewhat spent, emotionally
exhausted by the events in an East London apartment
in the night in a country across the ocean. I left
with my mind reeling, re-examining, wondering, what
will happen? What will they do?
They are characters, I know. They are not real. But
for two and a half hours on a Sunday afternoon they
were very real. I was transported to another place,
one which managed to display through other lives just
how similar we all are. We are united as human beings
in our sufferings and joys and pangs of love, our
inability to fully give at times, our capacity to
perhaps see the light and change, or begin to try
at least. To reach out, extend an arm, take a chance.
Complete with brewing tea, spaghetti sauce simmering
on the stove, olive oil and onion pervading the air,
Skylight allowed me an intimate portrait of three
lives. Much like the characters, trapped by their
own emotional barriers, and unable to get beyond the
skylight of each other’s souls, I felt the voyeuristic
vantage of experiencing everything, seeing, smelling,
hearing it all, but knowing that I could never really
possess what I was witnessing.
It is a play after all, make-believe. And yet, so
heart-breakingly real, resonating deep through the
power and beauty of drama done so well.