Not For the Faint of Heart

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.

The Review Where I Try Not to Be a Spoiler (But Readers Should Still Be Alert)

As a writer, my reaction to something well written (be it play, movie, novel, poem, advertising copy...) is usually "Dang!  I wish I had written that!"  It was on my lips as I left the movie theater after watching the movie Freetown (and in the back of my head for the two hours prior).

One thing I loved was how seeds of future actions or plot turns were carefully sewn into the script without feeling forced or out of place. For instance, a fun scene illustrating street contacting in Monrovia effortlessly establishes that an elder is having a hard time with a cold contact approach to proselyting ("opening your mouth").  This elder later opens his mouth at just the right time, which was immensely satisfying.  Little moments like that are found throughout the movie, making it feel like all of the little threads have a through-line.

The journey of the movie is both a physical journey to Freetown and a spiritual journey for the man charged with keeping the missionaries safe.  This charge bookends the events in the movie and spurs him on in the physical journey, which moves him along in his spiritual journey too.  Issues of faith and practicality are the central struggle in the story but the script doesn't sermonize.  A well placed word or phrase (or no words at all) speak more than a monologue could.  The write trusted the powerful images on the screen and did not let the characters talk more than they ought to.

The movie shines in many aspects, of course, (not just the writing) and the story itself (a true one) is incredibly compelling.  There were shots that created images not soon forgotten--the line of baptismal candidates queued up beneath the lookout holding a semi-automatic rifle, the convert on the bus with religious icons on the window behind her, the return of one man when two were expected (with just the closing of the door and no words).  It felt like every shot was rich with information about life in Africa, life as an African missionary, and life as an African Latter-Day Saint.  My heart thrilled to see their faith and courage.

The only complaint I had (besides wondering sometimes why no one thought to barter with those big, shiny watches they were wearing) was that there was one character we don't quite see safely to the end of his story.  Those of you who have watched the movie might know who I'm talking about.  The rest of you should stop reading right now because I won't be able to rest until I know......

What happened to our LDS rebel friend??  I half expected him to come tumbling out of the car on the ferry but he was nowhere to be seen.  I love that he made his stand at the end, but he still seems very unsettled to me. Where did he go? What were the consequences of his bold action? Earlier we are given to believe that helping the missionaries would have dire consequences but the bad guy seems so thwarted at the end that I don't feel like his threat is credible anymore and yet I don't know for sure that this is the case. Also, the rebel is asked several times to join the group fleeing but he chooses to stay with the rebel group. Then he breaks with the rebels but doesn't join the fleeing group? Perhaps this is a minor point, but it stands out as a loose thread when all other threads are so beautifully tied off.

Overall, this was a highly engaging film. I enjoyed watching it and encourage you to do the same. This film with stick me for a long time (and not just because I dearly wish I had been the one to write it).

Write A LOT of cruddy stuff: a conversation with three playwrights

I happened upon a panel discussion at the Orem library tonight that featured Eric Samuelsen, Melissa Leilani Larson, and Wendy Gorley.  Well, that makes it sound as if I was wandering the stacks and heard them talking.  In actuality, this morning Eric posted about remembering that he was doing something tonight and forgetting what it was.  When the mystery was solved I realized that I had nothing going on tonight and could ask my live-in babysitters to get the kids ready for bed while I ran off to the library.  Hooray!  It seemed like just the kick-in-the-pants I needed, playwriting-wise, and that’s what it ended up being.

It was a pretty intimate little gathering where the playwrights told fun stories about their experiences writing and producing plays.  Words of wisdom were offered.  Questions were answered.  A giant chocolate cake came into play at one point.  And I ended up looking like a dork, which I learned from the playwrights is something I should embrace. 

They made lots of good points, but the one that stuck with me (because it hit the closest to home) is that you should embrace failure, not fear looking stupid, and write lots and lots of cruddy stuff (so that you can have something to revise and revise into something better).  In the spirit of that sentiment, when I heard someone introduced to another person as a poet I took the next possible moment to introduce myself to him and to pitch my open mic to him.  He looked somewhat perplexed, mostly bemused, and talked with me about BYU (I graduated shortly after he began teaching there).  Then, later, I heard two of the playwrights talking in amazement about having this amazing BYU poet in attendance and how in awe they were of him.  Yes, I had pitched my budding performance poetry venue to one of the preeminent LDS poets, who very well might be the sort of poet who thinks that slam poetry isn’t actually poetry, who certainly doesn’t have a huge desire to hear a poem about the importance of tampons or the horrors of too tiny bikinis.  I kind-of wanted to sink into a crack in the floor. 

But then I embraced my dorkiness.  Because, you know what?  That sentence up there makes a whole lot of assumptions about a person I actually don’t know at all.  Tie-clad BYU professors that students worship may very well be closet performance poets.  You never know.  And part of my mission with this creative writing open mic is to draw in a segment of the writing population that isn’t already in the slam poetry scene.  That would be this poet for sure.  Definitely following up the dorky encounter with a professional but dorky email.

The other thing that made me feel dorky in a positive way is the restlessness that this discussion made me feel about one of my major goals with moving up to Utah County.  I had lost my theater community and I wanted that back.  In the past few years I have stoked the fires of my writing with poetry but haven’t really gotten back on the playwriting horse.  My hope with this move is that I can establish a new artistic community up here.  I don’t know how that will play out.  I don’t know who will be involved in that long-term.  I do know, however, that it takes time to establish those connections and friendships.  And it takes time to get back on that horse.  So maybe it’s a good thing that I won’t have live-in babysitters for much longer because what I most need right now, as I am establishing the community part of the dream, is to establish the art part of the scene.  Instead of dashing off to a fun panel discussion to get a kick in my playwriting pants, I need to spend an hour at home writing.  I need to give myself my own kick in the pants.  Because I’m a dork and I embrace that.  And I’m going to write a ton of really crappy stuff, including introspective blogs, saccharine novels, ridiculous poems, and contrived plays.  Complete drivel.  Look forward to it, Utah County.