Theatre in Review: Tuesdays with Morrie (Sea Dog Theatre/St. George's Episcopal Church)

	Christopher J. Domig, Len Cariou. Photo: Jeremy Varner

There's something unexpectedly profoundly moving about Len Cariou's first entrance in Tuesdays with Morrie. The eighty-five-year-old actor, who now uses a cane, is escorted into the chantry of St. George's Episcopal Church, where he stands at a piano -- hugging it rather closely, if truth be told, but don't count him out just yet. To be sure, time has had its way with the actor who once played Henry V on Broadway, romanced Lauren Bacall in the musical Applause, and created the role of Fredrik Egerman in the original production of A Little Night Music. (These are but a fraction of his credits; the man has done it all, including nearly three hundred episodes of the CBS series Blue Bloods.)

But if Cariou now seems a tad frail, it's appropriate for the role of Morrie Schwartz, an impish, charismatic Brandeis sociology professor watching the clock run down on his life. Morrie's spirit and skill remain undimmed: Accompanied by co-star Christopher J. Domig at the piano, he jauntily executes various dance steps -- a little Latin, a touch of tango, and a perfectly respectable foxtrot. Looking back on his career, he is openly proud of having trained a generation of radicals like Jerry Rubin and Angela Davis, and he isn't shy about demanding "extra credit" from a visiting student, meaning a kiss on the forehead. He's also capable of delivering unnervingly direct questions ("Are you at peace with yourself?"), and when a visitor rather skittishly describes his girlfriend as a very fine woman, he asks, pointedly and amusingly, "Have you named her?"

The power of Morrie's personality is all the more remarkable because he has been diagnosed with ALS, aka Lou Gehrig's disease, which foretells the shutting down of his muscular system; ultimately, he notes, death will come when he can no longer manage to breathe. The prognosis is months, not years. Morrie greets this terrible news with rare equanimity and a certain gallows humor. Word about his health has gotten out, creating an uptick in visits from friends: "People want to know what to pack," he says, sardonically. He organizes a "living funeral" so he can hear all the lovely things everyone plans to say after he is gone. He is interviewed on Nightline -- Ted Koppel is a narcissist, he notes with some regret, as usual not missing a trick -- and he becomes a pen pal to the world, engaging with total strangers in a dialogue about death. Such is his dedication to life that he dictates these letters when his hands will no longer cooperate.

From scene to scene, Cariou charts Morrie's relentless physical disintegration with ruthless honesty. Handed an egg salad sandwich (a favorite), he struggles to get it to his mouth, his face a mask of terror over muscles that refuse to respond. Over time, his body appears to sink into itself until he is lying supine, only his head and mouth retaining any mobility. It's a fearless performance, astonishingly exact in its consideration of the body's failure yet marked by a fighting spirit that won't be surrendered this side of the grave.

Cariou has a fine partner in Domig as Mitch, the former student who drifts out of Morrie's orbit, returning for a visit after seeing the Nightline broadcast. An aspiring jazz pianist (against his parents' wishes), Mitch is scarred by the awful death, via cancer, of the beloved uncle who supported his musical career. Turning to journalism, he becomes a noted sportswriter and TV personality, churning out columns and rushing here, there, and everywhere, snarkily interviewing the latest golden boy or girl. In theory, he sits atop the world but for a dissatisfaction that plagues him like a low-grade fever. Falling into weekly meetings with Morrie -- and rearranging his complicated travel schedule to do so -- he finds himself defending his life choices, especially his workaholism and his aversion to deep emotional attachments. It's a tricky role -- Mitch could easily become insufferable -- but Domig handles it deftly, deflecting Morrie's most probing questions with a shaggy charm yet revealing Mitch's tougher, less likable side in tense work-related phone conversations. Especially telling is Mitch's panic at the idea of bringing Morrie and Janine, his new wife, into the same room, an event that, he fears, will leave him exposed and, for once, not in control.

Undeniably, Morrie is a fine vehicle for Cariou, especially under Erwin Maas' graceful direction. The production also benefits from a simple, but remarkably beautiful, lighting design by Guy de Lancey and an effective sound design by Eamon Goodman that includes, among other things, the voice of Janine hauntingly singing, "The Very Thought of You." But it's also true that the script, by Jeffrey Hatcher and Mitch Albom, adapted from Albom's mega-bestselling memoir, is a too-obvious setup -- an all-wise, humanist versus a shallow, self-hating careerist -- rather strenuously designed to instruct. It's a smoothly processed package of uplift, a live-for-the-moment life lesson that quickly becomes repetitious. The pairing of opposites is too blatant, the eleventh-hour sharing of pained secrets is too manipulative to be effective. (I rush to add that many in the audience at the night I attended were sobbing openly, so your mileage may vary.)

Strangely, the powerful performances undermine the script, their authenticity scraping up against its homiletics. (The book version of Tuesdays with Morrie, which preceded the play, launched Albom as in the inspirational publishing sector, produced essays and novels at a rate Joyce Carol Oates might envy.) As in so many two-handers, the action can only go in one direction -- does anyone really believe Mitch won't be transformed by his friendship with Morrie? -- leaving the audience to mark time until the inevitable occurs. Still, there are long stretches during which Cariou's still-vital charm, his sheer expertise, carries the day and his fearless probing of life on the edge of the abyss is something to see. After all, how many theatre legends do we have left? If, like so many theatre fans, you've revered the actor for decades, a visit to St. George's may be indicated. He's still pitching and his professionalism is a wonder.--David Barbour