By BRUCE DENNILL
My Name Is Lucy Barton / Directed by Charmaine Weir-Smith / Theatre On The Square, Sandton
A one-woman show that takes place in a hospital room (bar some sequences that are imagined elsewhere) My Name Is Lucy Barton is, as the title suggests, a study in identity; specifically the parts of identity formed by reflecting the character and actions of parents, with the flaws in that scenario made clearer by the passing of time and the beginning of the unlearning of those perspectives and values that comes with being a mature adult.
Lucy (Julie-Anne McDowell) has only gone into hospital to have her appendix out, but complications mean she must remain there – not coincidentally, a hugely vulnerable space – for much longer than she had planned to. Then there is a second surprise – the arrival of her mother (also played by McDowell), who the younger woman would never have expected to be so caring given their fractured relationship and the apparent inability of the elder to show love in any meaningful emotional way.
Both Elizabeth Strout’s original text in the book of the same name, and Rona Munro’s masterful adaptation for the stage paint a complex, challenging picture of a woman whose physical scars might have been largely forgotten but who, faced with new interactions with her mother, must revisit painful heart spaces, even as she claims the strength and satisfaction she has gained from finding herself (in all senses) as a professional writer.
Director Charmaine Weir-Smith Keeps McDowell moving constantly but realistically around the character’s claustrophobic setting, which helps to further heighten the intensity of the story, otherwise generated by what is a long, complicated monologue shared by a couple of characters.
The above platform provided for McDowell is already superb, but the actress’s performance elevates the piece to entirely new level. This is not an easy story to tell, and nor should it be – pulling punches on these themes would make the whole enterprise far less effective – and McDowell leaps into it with fearsome, breathtaking commitment that holds the audience’s attention throughout a rollercoaster of demanding storytelling.
Lucy, despite her circumstances, current and past, displays a sweet cheerfulness that supersedes the pain which – as beautifully communicated by McDowell – lies just below the surface. Her mother – the character change is defined by no more than the addition of a shawl and a switch to a gruffer, throat-threatening voice – is a much more sour presence, but it’s a hugely important part of the narrative that this woman; this damaged, cynical, callous individual; is there in in the room. She’s present, coming as close as she ever has to showing actual affection – audiences will need to decide for themselves if she manages that – and adding to Lucy’s puzzlement as she processes where she was, is, and possibly will be.
McDowell’s performance is one of the best you’re likely to see in a dramatic role of this kind. It appears to take a physical toll on her, which only begins to diminish once she takes her curtain call. For her craft alone, My Name Is Lucy Barton is worth seeing, but add to that the encouragement the script provides to look into your own identity issues, fascinating and testing as that might be, and the play is a wholly satisfying – and entertaining – slice of a multifaceted life.
