Theatre in Review: Fireflies (Atlantic Theater Company)

	DeWanda Wise, Khris Davis. Photo: Ahron R. Foster.

The sky is on fire -- streaked with saturated colors that suggest the universe is burning -- in Donja R. Love's new drama; it's a display matched only by the explosions in the mind of Olivia, the wife of Charles, a Baptist minister in the American South during the Civil Rights era. At first, they seem to be a thoroughly conventional pair: Notice how, as he enters the house, returning from a trip, she furtively stashes her cigarettes and ashtray -- Charles doesn't think that smoking is "ladylike." As additional evidence, there is the wholesome meal she has cooked for him and the confident way he carries her off to the bedroom for an intimate encounter. In their manner and dress, they appear to be conventional "nice" Negroes of the period, forever on their company manners, lest they incite controversy or give racists cause for criticism. At times, they seem to be modeled on Martin Luther and Coretta Scott King.

And yet this picture is almost entirely false. However their marriage began, it has become a seriously troubled affair, for reasons both public and deeply private. It is 1963 and white violence against blacks has metastasized throughout the South -- the next day, Charles is scheduled to speak at the funeral of the four girls killed in the notorious Birmingham church bombing -- and the stress of living with such events is eroding their souls. Just how much becomes clear when Olivia -- in an incident borrowed from the lives of the Kings -- produces a tape recording that has been sent to her, providing aural evidence that Charles is sleeping around on his road trips. This is even more destabilizing than you might expect, for, far from being a compliant wife, Olivia is, in many ways, the brains of the organization, writing Charles' sermons and coaching him in their delivery. At the same time, she is becoming angrier and more reclusive. And then there is the matter of the frankly erotic letters she has written to another woman, a development that provides an entirely fresh -- to Charles, frankly dismaying -- window into her knotted-up heart.

And, as a final bombshell, comes the news that, after years of believing herself barren, she is pregnant, and she is bitterly unhappy about it. In a moment of prayer, she tells God, "If anything, this baby is that unpleasant present under the Christmas tree that you never play with, that you wish you could pass on to someone else." And, as she informs the scandalized Charles, she plans to terminate the pregnancy the next day, while he is praying over the bodies of those murdered girls.

This, as you can imagine, is a lot to pack into a ninety-minute two-hander, and I'd be lying if I said that Love has managed the task elegantly and seamlessly; he seems to be aiming for a hybrid of magical realism and kitchen sink domestic drama, a match that doesn't totally take. This isn't as unified a piece as Sugar in Our Wounds, his impressive Civil War drama seen last spring at Manhattan Theatre Club; one has to wonder how this seemingly close pair has been sitting for so long on so many secrets and lies. But Love is a talent to be reckoned with, a young playwright who knows how to create bristling, wounding confrontations; once the furies inside their marriage are unleashed, both Charles and Olivia are deeply shaken by the uttering of truths that cannot be taken back. Love wins points for originality, too: He composes a dark but compelling countermelody to the standard anthemic account of the Civil Rights movement. Charles and Olivia occupy a landscape marked by death and scarred by homophobia -- with no clear resolution in sight. And, as the audience knows, things will get worse -- white flight, riots, and assassination -- before they get better.

And Love certainly knows how to write roles for actors to tear into. DeWanda Wise, who impressed in a very different role several years ago in Dominique Morisseau's Sunset Baby, renders in blazing terms the many emotions -- unappeased ambition, frustrated desire, molten rage, and terror about the future -- that are roiling Olivia to her core. It's little wonder that she is experiencing mental bomb blasts that could be bursts of rage, fugue states, or perhaps tiny migraines. Whether falling into Charles' arms, turning a damning gaze on him, recoiling from his touch, or bleakly announcing, "I'm losing myself," Wise is a flawless guide to her character's divided heart. As Charles, who is more constrained by the role he plays in life, Khris Davis is given a narrower emotional range to traverse, but he has plenty of fine moments, not least when, in a sudden fury, he sends a chair scudding across the kitchen floor. His disgust at the idea of Olivia entertaining lesbian feelings is bravely rendered -- he isn't the kind of actor who must ingratiate himself with the audience -- yet one can't help but feel for the bafflement and heartbreak in his face as he watches his marriage, on which he has staked so much, slipping down the drain. It goes without saying that they perform flawlessly together.

Clearly, the director, Saheem Ali (whose rapidly expanding résumé includes Sugar in Our Wounds), has expertly driven the incisive performances and carefully worked-out staging, filled with telling bits of business -- including a dance, choreographed by Raja Feather Kelly, that is both erotic and revelatory of the marriage's limits -- that plays out on Arnulfo Maldonado's cramped kitchen set. As if embracing the play's fusion of styles, Maldonado places the small set against a vast curved cyc on which the projection designer, Alex Basco Koch, delivers images of the sky rendered in searing colors. David Weiner's lighting, Dede Ayite's period costumes, and Justin Ellington's original music and sound design all contribute to the overall effect.

Near the end of Fireflies, tragedy strikes, and Olivia finds herself recounting how circumstances drove her to take on Charles' role and deliver a sermon. It's a moment of terrible pain but also of personal triumph, as she finally claims her innate power for herself, using it to move others. It also leaves one filled with speculation -- for if Olivia is to come into the fullness of her being, there is much more trouble in her future -- it is 1963, after all. During this speech, she also explicitly links herself, via bloodline, to Henry, a slave and one of the principal characters in Sugar in Our Wounds. Along with that work, Fireflies is part of a trilogy about race and homophobia, set at three distinct moments in American history. Bring on the third piece as soon as possible, please. -- David Barbour