Theatre in Review: A World Apart (Creation Production Company at the Flea Theatre)

	Antoinette LaVecchia. Photo: Jim Baldassare

A nun and a priest teeter on the edge of a forbidden love in A World Apart, a work that is distinguished by its utter lack of reality. Alarm bells start ringing about two minutes into Susan Mosakowski's new drama, when Mother Augustina, the abbess of a Cistercian monastery, asks her assistant, Sister Cornelia, where she believes heaven lies. The latter quietly points upward, and Mother Angelina, seizing a teachable moment, replies, "Heaven and hell do not have that kind of geography! Maybe heaven is right next to us, shoulder to shoulder, or in front of us, or behind...." That two trained members of a religious order are taking part in this freshman-level theological discourse isn't a good sign. At least they don't discuss how many angels can fit on the head of a pin.

Things don't improve when Father Byrne, formerly a missionary in Peru, shows up to give a talk to the nuns. "We need to ask ourselves, what should be our future role as contemplative nuns and priests," he tells them. "Are we doing more for others by being inside our monastic world, or should we be outside and active, a part of everyday life, a part of every life that needs us? Why is no one talking about this?" Apparently, nobody in A World Apart ever heard of a little thing called Vatican II, during which these questions were asked extensively and answered in the affirmative. The fact that contemplative orders constitute a small and ever-shrinking portion of Catholic religious life doesn't come up, nor does the possibility that those who opt for this way of life are, more often than not, peculiarly suited to it.

As it happens, Father Byrne is regarded by the nuns as something of a hot number, and it's not long before he's making eyes at Mother Augustina, giving her looks that suggest he can see right through her wimple. Mother Augustina is nonplussed, to say the least, and, before long, they're talking about nothing but sex. Next thing you know, he's mailing her tight purple dresses, and she's skipping out of the convent for sleepovers at his new apartment.

The more Mother Augustina and Father Byrne talk and talk and talk about their dilemma, the sillier it seems. (Even when they finally end up in bed, it's only a short intermission in their extended discourse.) It's not just that the level of discussion is poor; it's that Mosakowski has almost totally failed to imagine the implications of the situation. (The idea of any order of nuns -- a group with a median age of about 75 -- being run by an attractive woman in her early 40s is something out of a Harlequin Romance, but never mind.) More importantly, the author never addresses the fact that Father Byrne, having lived as missionary, has been far more involved in the world than Augustina, who has spent her adult life in a cloister. Neither does she wonder what these two would do outside of their vocations -- how they would earn a living or how they would negotiate a marriage or serious love affair having had no experience of the opposite sex.

The overwhelming impression left by A World Apart is of a writer wading into matters that she knows nothing about. Jean Randich's production is unable to impose any clarity on the action, which veers from giggly comic exchanges to pure purple melodrama. The cast is similarly hamstrung. As Mother Augustina,Antoinette LaVecchia is stymied by a character whose intentions seem to change from scene to scene -- one minute she's egging on Father Byrne; the next she is outraged virtue itself. If Andy Paris' Father Byrne is a bit of pill with his self-righteous attitudes, it's not the actor's fault. The same goes for Amelia Workman as the weird Sister Cornelia, a sexual hysteric who tracks Mother Augustina's adventures with the breathless excitement of a desperate housewife perusing the scandals in Us magazine.

Interestingly, the production design has the rigor and austerity that's totally missing from the script. Lee Savage's setting demonstrates that, even when working with a few furniture pieces, if you arrange them imaginatively enough, you can make a compelling theatrical look. Mark Barton's lighting, which redefines the space from scene to scene, has a precision that suggests, more than the script does, the constraints of lives lived according to the rules of St. Benedict. Robert Murphy's sound design blends the chanting of nuns, the tolling of bells, and other evocative effects. Jennifer Moeller's costumes feel authentic.

But A World Apart is never anything other than a glossy bodice-ripper that begins in unreality and ends up as pure pulp fiction. These are not the happiest days in the Catholic Church, but surely it deserves better treatment than this.--David Barbour