Pilot Program
by Melissa Leilani Larson
Plan B Theater
April 18, 2015
On the drive up I resolved to see fewer shows in Salt Lake City. The logistics just about did me in. All of my good intentions about giving myself plenty of time to make the Herculean drive past the Point of the Mountain dissolved into 5 minutes here and 5 minutes there (my only consolation is that I will return to a weed free house with clean counters and folded laundry). In the end I was yelling at my children, driving faster than one ought to, and making muttered offerings to the traffic and parking gods. And resolving not to do this again. We have talented artists in Utah County. Maybe Salt Lake City theater is something to do when the children are grown. Darn you, Plan B, for undermining my perfectly logical resolution.
I arrived at my seat with 1.5 minutes to spare. Long enough for pleasant chatter with the folks on either side of me. Long enough to absorb the beautiful set before it became a more practical work of art. It was a basic living room set with lamps everywhere--as if the space itself was grasping desperately for light. It was all a very gauzey, warm glow with curves and soft corners everywhere. I loved how the lamps and lanterns extended far above the traditional living room space (heavenward?) with three large globes, each higher than the last, which made me think of the three degrees of glory. It had the effect of making heaven ever present in the show. Into this space the show was born for the third-to-last time.
The main character and narrator, Abby, sat on the couch and gently wove such beautiful lines that the performance poet in me almost snapped my fingers as a reflex gesture of solidarity and appreciation. There were so many moments like that in the play, generally when Abby had a monologue. One in particular stands out: the monologue about the dripping faucet. Not only was the image gorgeously evoked and the perfect illustration of the situation, the very image of this woman sitting in the kitchen studying the dripping faucet in this level of detail was a heartbreaking commentary.
But let me dial back to the opening scene again. We are presented with a faithful LDS couple who have just returned home from an interview with an area authority where they were asked to be part of a pilot program for the reinstatement of polygamy. They are as rattled as most people would be, with the wife (Abby) more unsettled than the husband (Jake). Jake was very supportive, one of those "truly good guys." I liked him, but by the end he really bugged me because he had no spine and no true spiritual center. Abby refers to herself as the "broken" one, but she's the one truly seeking the Spirit. Jake doesn't seem to have his own opinion on the situation until it's already done. When he assumes she is upset because she doesn't want to do it he bends over backwards to assure her that he's ok with that and that they will be spiritually fine with that. When she makes the decision to do it, he does as he is told (with very little pushback). I'm not saying he's a horrible person or anything but, good gravy, did you really just do something as big as take a second wife without seeking your own confirmation??
It made for an interesting dynamic, though, to have the polygamous marriage not be male-driven at all in the context of the play (setting aside the whole called-by-an-all-male-church-leadership-to-do-it-in-the-first-place thing). It's very much a love affair between the two women in the beginning (not a romantic love affair but more of a kindred spirits situation). This doesn't last, though, as the romantic love affair begins between Jake and the proclaimed younger version of Abby (Heather). They are all good people trying to make the best of the situation but the inevitable fracturing is, well, inevitable. Between the strict "visitation" schedule and the aching loneliness, it feels less like a marriage than like a joint custody agreement. There are flashes of loveliness (like the crossword puzzle) but it's never enough to recover from the punch-to-the-gut rawness that lurks under the surface of all of their interactions. That's what really touched a nerve for me because I know that loneliness, I know that rawness, I know what it's like to lose your husband.
Some people feel that these are the sorts of marriages we'll all have in heaven and if this play is an accurate representation of heaven I'd probably be the first resident of heaven's luxurious padded cells (with the straight jackets made of minky fabric. Soooo soft. Mmmmm). I'm sure equally interesting plays could be written from the perspective of Jake and Heather and would illustrate what they've lost too, but this is Abby's story and it's Abby we see losing pieces of herself as the story progresses. We see this quite literally as she removes coats, sweaters, and jewelry piece by piece, with no fanfare. She just keeps giving bits of herself away until in the end she gives away her voice and her husband comments that she seems to have disappeared. In the final moment of the play we see the original couple on the couch we started on, having one of those tiny, lovely moments. With the weight of the play behind it, though, it isn't lovely. It's wrenching. They had a beautiful marriage. And now they are connected forever but still essentially single. They share space but they are no longer a unit. There is just so much more pain there than love.
It made me think of two things: how whitewashed the scriptural version of Lehi's exodus from Jerusalem must seem when compared with a realistic depiction of the sacrifices and hardships they endured and also the words of the hymn O My Father. "In the heavens are parents single? No, the thought makes reason stare." I don't know how this issue will play out in the eternities (or even in this life, as pointed out in the opening scene), but I hope that Eliza R Snow was truly inspired when she penned that "truth is reason." Or at least I hope that when I have my husband in the eternities I won't still feel single.
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