Meet Albee's Merpeople

When I think of Edward Albee, I think of the psychological explorations of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. The first act of his last play, The Seascape, fulfills that generalization remarkably well. It opens with a married couple bickering. Charlie (John Beard) and Nancy (Nicole Charbonneau), just like the pair in Woolf--they are past middle age and frustrated by the stagnancy into which their lives have fallen. Nancy is devastated by it and Charlie is burdened by her insistence that he empathize with her misery. Soon another couple arrives whose own personal issues mirror and illuminate those of Charlie and Nancy's. I thought I was watching a later, less effective incarnation of Woolf, except that there is one surprising twist: the second couple, Leslie (Kenny Kelleher) and Sarah (Nicole Dufrense), are green sea creatures.

Yes, I feel the need to repeat that: They are green sea creatures. I was immediately perplexed by their appearances. The Loft Theater drove me to the library. I was convinced that the portrayal of Leslie and Sarah as merpeople was a crazy, futuristic idea that Emerson College students used to rejuvenate an otherwise standard conversational Albee plot. I was wrong. Although Albee does not provide an exact description of their physiques, he makes enough indications of their crawling in and out of the water to justify the slithering amphibians I saw on the stage. The plot is not merely implausible by virtue of the fact that two of the main characters are a sort of unique water animal, but by the fact that Leslie and Sarah, disregarding their physicality and slight speech impediments, conduct themselves just like humans. They are akin to an aquatic Mork and Mindy.

Once I stopped resisting the idea of Leslie and Sarah as ludicrous and illogical, I began to appreciate them. Their characters were both the best-written and best-acted part of the play. With their entrance towards the end of the first act, they invigorated what had been a tedious melodrama about one couple's relationship (something we all see enough of at home) and turned it into a comic drama with abrasive edges. Leslie and Sarah put a necessary stop to Nancy's whining and Charlie's obstinance. They interrupted a fight which easily could have continued inconclusively for several years (and probably already had). Their trepidation, fascination and confusion at the sight of humans (a reciprocated sentiment) undermined the impact of the common self-absorbed dialogue the humans had been sharing.

The two couples proceed to question each other about their lives, a process which reveals parallels between their relationships. The men are both typically protective and stubborn, like leaders defending their pack. Nancy and Sarah both exemplify the stereotype of the domineering wife combined with an incessant curiosity. Nancy is agitated by her husband's reluctance to "live," and Sarah rushes to Nancy's side every time she has an opportunity to learn something more about humans. She was overjoyed by the sight of Nancy's breast.

This mutual investigation culminates in a discussion of emotions, where Charlie insists that the principal difference between humans and "brute beasts" are feelings such as love and hate and anger. By the time of their departure, it is evident that the sea creatures, although unaware of the word "emotion", have always had those feelings too.

The contrast in character between the two couples is exaggerated in performance. Charbonneau and Beard--as Nancy and Charlie--tend to put so much effort into their dispositions that they seem unrealistic. Nancy's sarcasm is so affected that it seems sincere, and Charlie's complacency is too noticeable to be the subtle characterization it ought to be. He looks quite like a little boy in adult's clothing, wearing shoes a little too big for his personality. Nancy instead has a little girl's saccharine, irritating voice inside a matronly visage. On the other hand, Leslie and Sarah--Kelleher and Dufrense--are enticing to watch. They masterfully communicate a lifestyle on the fine line between aquatic and terrestrial human. With every move and noise they make, lots of twitches and sounds, they seem increasingly alive. I found it easier to believe that Leslie and Sarah might have actually existed than the ageless, incessantly dull drones, Charlie and Nancy.

"Vrrrrrrrm." That is how The Seascape opens and closes, to the roar of a helicopter. At first I thought that the loud rumble of the helicopter unnecessarily interrupted the dialogue and contributed little to the play. It was like the sea creatures to me, a strange inexplicable phenomenon. Also like Leslie and Sarah, though, it had been included by Albee in the text. And it was actually a welcome refreshment from the visible degradation of the human couple. The roar mocks the neverending paralysis of their lives and parodies the tireless moans of their conversations. The helicopter scares the sea creatures, just like Nancy and Charlie did. They are happy; they want to keep their simple lives, not share in human misery. The helicopter, more than any character, encapsulates the rhythm and ideas of this story. "Vrrrrrrm. Vrrrrrrrrm."