Theatre in Review: Mary Jane (Manhattan Theatre Club/Samuel J. Friedman Theatre)

	Rachel McAdams. Photo: Matthew Murphy

I don't want to drive people away from the Friedman, but Mary Jane is that most singular thing, a portrait of an everyday saint, and a compelling one to boot. The title character of Amy Herzog's haunting drama is the single mother of Alex, a two-and-a-half-year-old boy with cerebral palsy, a seizure disorder, and lung disease. Also, one of his vocal cords is paralyzed, leaving him unable to communicate verbally. Mary Jane has arranged her entire life around Alex's round-the-clock care. Her ex-husband, the boy's father, is long gone; she is holding onto her administrative assistant job by her fingernails; her dream of getting an education degree is on indefinite hold. By all rights, she should be exhausted, despairing, looking for an exit; instead, she faces her daily tightrope with something startlingly like joy.

This is even more surprising because, during the play, the fragile underpinnings of Mary Jane's life are removed, one by one. Early on, we see her juggling the schedules of her not-always-adequate nurses and keeping at bay her sympathetic, but increasingly dissatisfied, employer. (It's only July, and Mary Jane has already used up her sick and vacation days, putting out fires; in its understated way, the play speaks volumes about the inadequacy of health care in this country.) Despite everything, however, she is sympathetic to her boss and equally forgiving of her ex. "It's hell for him, not being a part of Alex's life. But he just can't...I hope he finds some peace, I really do," she says, veering off into one of the moments of pregnant silence that is one of the play's hallmarks. Her attitude is partly due to her good nature and partly strategic: "One thing you learn," she says, "is that you can't get too worked up about every piece of bad news. Because sometimes they're wrong. A big chunk of the time they've been wrong."

This is good advice because the news in Mary Jane is reliably bad: A medical crisis will send Alex to the hospital for a lengthy stay. Mary Jane will be let go from her job. And, when she meets with Alex's physician, worrying that his daily X-rays may prove harmful, the doctor, choosing her words carefully, notes that such problems might not surface for two or three decades, adding, "I don't want to put too fine a point on it, but...Let's just say that's a very long time." It is the most delicately rendered death sentence imaginable.

Carrie Coon, the original Mary Jane in its premiere at New York Theatre Workshop in 2017, was a figure of cheerful competence, her can-do attitude her best defense against a world of loss. At the Friedman, Rachel McAdams finds a vein of self-deprecating humor, perched comfortably on the edge of disaster, facing it with a shrug and a wry smile over life's random cruelties. Growing melancholy for just a moment over Alex's inability to express himself, she says, "I wish he could tell me when something's wrong. I just wish he could tell me. That's the one thing..." But, catching herself, she adds, brightly, "Ay me, oh me! Sing a sad, sad song for poor old Mary Jane."

However saintly, do not mistake her for a holy fool. Instructing another mother who is facing a similar situation, she rattles off a detailed list of resources and strategies for obtaining the best possible benefits for one's child. She pushes back, nicely but firmly, about having illegally removed her apartment's window guards, trying to protect Alex's ability to look outside. And, undone by weariness and worry, she loses her composure over a hospital snafu that has kept Alex from getting a bit of music therapy. Each day brings a new battle to secure the tiniest amenities for a boy who has so little.

Anne Kauffman, who directed Mary Jane's debut production, once again does finely detailed work with a cast consisting of newcomers and repeat performers. April Matthis lends her indelible presence to Sherry, the staunchest of Alex's home nurses, and Dr. Toros, who so gently tries to let Mary Jane down easy regarding her son's prospects. Susan Pourfar etches two sharply different portraits as Brianne, a young mother starting on a journey remarkably like Mary Jane's, and as Chaya, an Orthodox matron who tartly notes that her faith doesn't shield her from the pain of a chronically ailing child. Lily Santiago is almost unrecognizable from scene to scene as Amelia, an adolescent who gets a quick, harrowing tutorial in emergency care, and Kat, an overscheduled music therapist. Brenda Wehle bookends the action as Mary Jane's faintly enigmatic superintendent and Tenkei, a Buddhist nun whose gentle, listening presence offers a certain healing.

The scenic designer Lael Jellinek engineers a spectacular transformation from the intimacy of Mary Jane's small apartment to the cavernous hospital, a space that gradually empties during the play's second half; Ben Stanton's lighting provides strongly contrasting atmospheres for these locations. Brenda Abbandandolo's unshowy costumes nevertheless quickly delineate each new character. Leah Gelpe provides the near-constant sounds of the monitors and breathing machines that keep Alex alive.

This time around, I found the final scene, between Mary Jane and Tenkei, slightly disappointing. It contains some of Herzog's most beautiful writing, as the nun helps Mary Jane, who suffers from migraines, find a certain wonder in her affliction; still, one longs for a firmer resolution. This, of course, is impossible and it is a testament to the playwright's honesty that she doesn't try to supply one. Indeed, it is a measure of how deeply one comes to feel for Mary Jane that it seems almost unsupportable that she remains pretty much where she started.

Still, this is one of Herzog's finest achievements and it provides McAdams with a most memorable Broadway debut. What was so affecting about Mary Jane in its 2017 premiere and remains so today is its understanding that Mary Jane's acceptance of her daily reality, her uncomplaining kindness, and her sheer tenaciousness, constitute a quiet sort of heroism. Love is its own justification, Herzog asserts; whereas others might see caring for Alex as a terrible burden, for Mary Jane, it is a gift. During a medical emergency that could prove fatal if the ambulance doesn't arrive in time, young Amelia, horrified, blurts, "I'm so sorry." Mary Jane, without thinking, replies, "Honey, why are you sorry?" It's a question that, days later, sticks in my head. --David Barbour