A Moon for the Misbegotten
Presented by the Shaw Festival
Review written by; S. James Wegg
Review: "The Poetry of Despair"
FOUR STARS (out of five)
Presented by the Shaw Festival
Review written by; S. James Wegg
Review: "The Poetry of Despair"
FOUR STARS (out of five)
Arguably Eugene O’Neill’s most personal and autobiographical (more his brother Jamie than himself, yet everything is “familialy” linked) play has erupted for the first time at the Shaw Festival, only begging the question: What took so long?
Played in the intimate confines of the Court House Theatre, lovingly crafted by director Joseph Ziegler and painstakingly set and costumed under designer Christina Poddubiuk’s unerring eye, this production was destined to succeed before any actor had been cast.
The magnificent script—a perfect balance of outrageous humour that brilliantly balances/foils the extra-dark drama to come—seems, on the surface, miles away from the wit and wisdom of George Bernard Shaw (the Festival’s “playtriarch”)—but at the roots of both is their unique understanding of human frailty and experience; only their methods differ.
As widower, Phil Hogan, Jim Mezon gives the performance of a lifetime—based on that outstanding achievement alone, there should never be a vacant seat until the production closes (after an audience-demanded extension). With the full range of emotions and variety of moods/personas before him, Mezon carefully paces himself, working in and around his colleagues on this incredible journey with his last remaining child (one by one, Phil’s three sons ditched their whisky-swigging slave master and subsistence farming to seek their fortune elsewhere), Josie towards love, forgiveness and understanding.
With the opening scene’s drama (last son Mike—Billy Lake, not yet secure in the brief but pivotal role—is preparing to make his freedom flight from the pig farm) and hilarious father/daughter banter that is stunningly, if momentarily quashed, Phil recalls his wife dying in childbirth of the pious young lad who has just escaped: “I’ve never set foot in a church since, and never will.” In a miracle of timing and tone, Mezon drew in the entire audience, revealing an unexpectedly tender side and deeply-seated anger at the tragic loss, which no amount of alcohol could ever drown, much less erase. In a flash, the hijinks return, yet without that shared revelation little that follows will make sense.
During his frequent drunken outbursts, Mezon employs a compelling dynamic range and body language (shaking yourself sober will never be the same) that is interspersed with his wily-layered tricks, which are designed to fool all those around him and occasionally (and much to his chagrin) himself. Incessantly singing a single verse praising potatoes (“Oh the praties they grow small /Over here, over here”) sets the stage for a last-ditch scheme to help his shameless daughter find her first true love and foreshadow much bleaker verses to come.
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