By Ciara LaVelle
By Jose D. Duran
By Kat Bein
By Juan Barquin
By Ciara LaVelle
By George Martinez
By Kat Bein
By Ciara LaVelle
The Drawer Boy is set in 1972, on an isolated dairy farm in Ontario, where two aging bachelors, Morgan and Angus, live a stoic, routine life of hard work. Morgan keeps close watch over the dairy herd and also over Angus, who is "simple," the result of a World War II head injury when both were soldiers stationed in Britain. Angus is a cheerful soul, but he has little of his long-term memory left and zero short-term retention. Somehow, though, he has retained a genius for juggling numbers and manipulating accounts. He enjoys life in the now and doesn't let his lack of memory bother him in the slightest -- he's not even aware there's a problem. The bachelor farmers' quiet life is interrupted one day by the arrival of a young actor/writer from Toronto, who offers to work on their place in exchange for research he needs to undertake for an upcoming play about rural life. Gruff Morgan grudgingly accepts the deal, but the city-bred Miles is pretty well useless around the farm and his attempts at writing farm-inspired drama keep getting rejected by his theater group. Desperate for a story, Miles at last finds one when he overhears Morgan recounting to Angus (who can't remember) how they went to England during the war, how they wooed and wed two English girls, and what happened when they all returned to Canada. Miles lifts the story whole hog for his play, then invites the farmers to a rehearsal. Though Morgan is furious at Miles's appropriation, the experience jump-starts Angus's memory, and he begins to recover shreds of a long-buried secret.
This premise certainly shows promise for a dandy play, and Healey, in his first full-length drama, manages to maintain suspense for much of the story. Healey's writing has a dry wit and, at times, a poetic power. The essential idea comes from a real incident, when a theater collective in Ontario visited farms to collect stories for a play about rural life. Healey's play takes a more poignant, personal focus, as the joys and heartaches of the two old farmers are slowly revealed. These characterizations are Healey's strongest suit, two juicy roles that are eminently actable.
In this the Florida Stage cast fares quite well. Gordon McConnell gives a fine performance as the dour, laconic Morgan, a man of few words and many emotions, all kept in check by steady nerves and willpower. McConnell, who appears to have a knack for salt-of-the-earth types (he was particularly fine as the grieving fire chief in GableStage's 9/11 drama The Guys), gives Morgan a rolling, bearlike gait, as if the farmer has been battered by a multitude of barnyard accidents and a regimen of habitual routines, giving him the physical sense of a man stuck in a rut. Colin McPhillamy gives Angus a cheerful, loopy charm, while Terrell Hardcastle as Miles achieves a sweet and sour balance of naive innocence and deplorable selfishness, no small feat. Director Louis Tyrrell once again delivers a carefully staged, clearly rendered production that's evocative and clear. Richard Crowell's set design, a wood plank farm kitchen surrounded by a cornfield, sets the right tone of golden-hued rusticity, a feel that's abetted by Matt Brigand Kelly's inventive sound design and augmented by John Fahey's interstitial style of guitar music.
Overall, the high production quality papers over some of the play's weaknesses. Why Morgan allows Miles to stay on and on despite his relentless intrusions; why the long-buried secret must be so carefully hidden when Angus can't remember anything anyway; why, indeed, Morgan has stuck with Angus over the years -- are questions that pretty much get in the way of the narrative flow, and it's probably best not to ask them at all. The character of Miles is sketched very flatly, in broad strokes. He is feckless, selfish, touting the benefits of Soviet-style collective farming while whining about the hard work he must do -- his idea of hard work is his performance as a porcupine for his theater group, a satiric jab that feels cheap. Angus, meanwhile, despite his pathos and charm, seems like a construct, regaining his memory at all-too-convenient moments to emphasize the point that the art of theater has power to reveal truth. (The play heavily references Hamlet, which uses theatricality for the same purpose.) This old, often used idea still has some punch. It also has irony -- The Drawer Boy may be weak on internal logic and thematic inspiration, but its theatrical spell is nonetheless strong enough to beguile. While watching this bumblebee, perhaps it's best to enjoy the moment, as Angus does, and forget about the hows and whys.