It is a slow, and sometimes difficult journey, to discover what “Salt-Water Moon’ is really about. But do not let that put you off. In this context, ‘slow’ is synonymous with ‘gently absorbing’ while ‘difficult’ can be paraphrased to mean ‘thoughtful’ or ‘intelligently imaginative’. The ambiguity is deliberate as the play may not be to everybody’s taste, but it kicks off 2023 with a blast of fresh air that wouldn’t be out of place on the ragged Newfoundland coast that is the setting for this engaging two-hander.
Set in the front porch of a coastal summer house in 1926, “Salt-Water Moon” is essentially a love story. Mary Snow (Bryony Miller) is star gazing through an eyeglass. Mim Houghton’s simple, festooned design evokes the starry, starry night, complemented by Neill Brinkworth’s lighting: a palette of blue and gray. It is not entirely clear whether Mary is expecting it, but a lilting voice – familiar to her – is heard in the distance, followed by the appearance of Jacob Mercer (Joseph Potter), Snow’s former sweetheart who abruptly left a year before to try his luck in Toronto. Mary initially resolves to remain true to her current fiancé, Jerome McKenzie, rightly betraying the hurt caused by Jacob’s desertion.
Potter plays Jacob with a permanent, cocksure grin that borders on arrogance: an arrogance that is belied by an assured, commanding and loveable performance. Potter’s natural charisma allows us to forgive the character’s sometimes dated sentiments and sentimentality. Equally, Miller rescues her character from the downtrodden path she could have taken, and we get a real sense that, whoever wins, she is quite capable of giving as good as she gets. There is a deep sense of rivalry between Mary’s unseen fiancé and Jacob, the exposition of which cleverly places the piece in the context of the first world war. Without lecturing us, the emotional and traumatic fallout that the Newfoundlanders suffered is poignantly understated, yet vividly described through David French’s dialogue.
The dialogue drives the play which, on paper, is a challenging script. Potter and Miller certainly rise to the challenge, tackling the dynamics (and the accents) with ease and skilfully playing with French’s words to strike the right levels of emotion. A talented duo, they possess the art of listening to each other and reacting. It is an intuitive and astute performance, full of realism. Peter Kavanagh directs with the same authenticity – subtle yet magical. There is a loving attention to detail that gives us the larger picture, just as the occasional silences reinforce the narrative.
Although the play ends with an unresolved outcome, we are left in little doubt as to the answer to the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ question. Nevertheless, we do leave the theatre wanting to know what happens next. This makes sense, as “Salt-Water Moon” is the third play in a quartet that features the two protagonists. Yet it has the fullness of a stand-alone piece of writing that explores the nature of love, betrayal, patriotism, loss, forgiveness and loyalty. It revisits a bygone age and harks back to a former and sometimes forgotten spirit of theatre; quietly asserting its relevance. A slow burner, but one that burns bright.
“Roslyn has created a world where sadness and humour have a strong bond”
Despite serious safety concerns, the plant Pennyroyal has often been used as medicine. Most commonly for fatigue and the common cold but in extreme cases to end pregnancy. Despite the appeal of its lilac-mauve flowers and spearmint fragrance, it harbours secret ingredients that kick with a potentially fatal toxicity. Lucy Roslyn’s play, “Pennyroyal”, is beautifully structured in a similarly natural way. Her words, stylised and arranged to catch the ear, possess undoubtable healing powers whilst simultaneously betraying the veins of venom that lay close to the surface. It is these two fundamental characteristics that drive the protagonists of Roslyn’s sophisticated and acute drama of enduring love.
Inspired by Edith Wharton’s novella, ‘The Old Maid’, Roslyn introduces us to sisters Daphne and Christine, and immediately ploughs the ugly and the beautiful into the same bed. Daphne (Madison Clare) was diagnosed with ‘Premature Ovarian Insufficiency’ at nineteen. Before the diagnosis, she didn’t give a thought about her ‘expected’ roles as a woman or, later in life, a mother. But with the chance now taken away it preoccupies her, and she is haunted by the ghosts of unborn children. Older sister Christine, played by Roslyn, is on hand to give her support, as well as her eggs that she doesn’t need for herself. Of course, it doesn’t go to plan. But the failed dreams and expectations of both women knot them together in an ever-tightening embrace that is suffocating as well as life-enhancing.
Josh Roche’s styled staging sharpens the dialogue and is complemented by Roslyn’s and Clare’s fine, natural performances. They pay little heed to the fourth wall but the switch from action to interaction is seamless. Similarly, the shifts in tone encapsulate the full and complicated spectrum of sisterhood emotions. They can never quite escape the shadow of the absent, unseen mother; sometimes just wandering about in the garden, sometimes six feet under it, depending on the shifts in time that either follow or lead the flow of the narrative.
Roslyn has created a world where sadness and humour have a strong bond. The tragedy of the ‘horrible coffee’ in the hospital waiting room threatens to upstage the fact that the mother is dying in the next room. Eggs, not yet embryos, are given names, and consequently adopt endearing personalities that never see the light of day. You could cry. You should cry. Yet you laugh instead. The intent behind the acting is faultless. The execution of these moments by Roslyn and Clare is quite extraordinary.
Edith Wharton planted the seed of this drama a century ago, but Roslyn has nurtured it and created a heart-warming and sometimes heart-breaking tale for today. One that resonates much more than the original. The focus may be on the things expected of women and what happens when they don’t go to plan (or rather the plan that society dictates), but it encompasses humanity as a whole and triggers wider reactions. By the same token, the intimacy of the Finborough’s stage is an apt setting for this play, but the story is in no way confined there. It follows you home, and brings a smile, and a tear, long after you’ve left the theatre.
