Theatre in Review: A Small Fire (Playwrights Horizons)

It's a smart playwright who recognizes that sometimes words have their limits, and only silence can communicate the profoundest of feelings. By this standard, Adam Bock is a very smart playwright; for the proof, see A Small Fire, an elliptical tale that speaks volumes when its characters are most at a loss for words.

The title alludes to a seemingly minor event that proves to be the harbinger of grotesque misfortune. Emily Bridges, a tough-minded, blunt-talking contractor, is at home with her husband, John, planning the wedding of their daughter, Jenny. There's a slight role reversal here: John is by far the gentler of the pair, while Bock, in the first scene, definitely establishes Emily as a take-charge type, the kind of woman who has no problem managing a construction crew -- or anything else, for that matter. Almost compulsively honest, she can't hide her dislike of her prospective son-in-law: "He has a speed boat! On a lake! He wears a necklace with a diamond on it!" In a minute, however, none of this will matter: Her quiet, comfortable bickering with John is interrupted when a kitchen fire erupts and Emily fails to notice it - because she has inexplicably lost her sense of smell.

At first, the Bridges treat this event as a curious and probably temporary phenomenon, even when a scene in which Jenny turns up with samples of her wedding cake deftly reveals that Emily has also lost the ability to taste food. But there is worse to come when, a little while later, Emily loses her sight. Bravely, despite her newfound invalid status, she insists that Jenny's wedding go forward - then, at the reception, her hearing vanishes. The dynamic and somewhat abrasive woman of the first few scenes is reduced to sitting on her couch, communicating with others through handclasps - once for yes, and twice for no.

Bock never offers any explanation for Emily's condition, and I suspect some will accuse him of willfully piling traumas on his heroine merely to make a dramatic point. The characters are not especially compelling initially -- John and Jenny both come across as rather ordinary -- and the author's habit of picking them up in mid-conversation means you have to listen closely to find out what's going on. But he has a way of drawing us in via a series of quietly explosive revelations that convey the unthinkable fragility of life. After her first episode, Emily becomes addicted to taking baths; John is baffled, until Jenny notes, "She's afraid she might not smell right." A scene in which Jenny dresses her mother in silence speaks volumes about their shifting relationship. Another scene opens with a lengthy silence between mother and daughter. It's only later that we realize that, in her fallen state, only Emily can start a conversation; the others have to wait for her to decide to speak.

It's fascinating how, without any melodramatics, the author makes us identify with Emily and John as they struggle to adjust. Astonishingly, Bock dares to find hope in this situation. In what will surely be recalled as one of the most remarkable scenes of this season -- if not the riskiest -- the despairing Emily reaches out to her husband, and they strip naked and make love in their bedroom. As staged by Trip Cullman and performed by Reed Birney and Michele Pawk with an intimacy so intense that you may forget to breathe, this unusually graphic sequence becomes a profound act of affirmation.

Then again, everything about Cullman's production comes together to powerful effect. Pawk refuses to sentimentalize Emily in the early scenes, and she captures with painful honesty her sheer bafflement at her fate and her difficult adjustment to a life of dependency. ("I can feel the devil crouching next to me but I can't see him," she says. "He's whispering to this thing inside me that's slowly eating away at me and he's whispering encouragements.") There's real anguish behind the smiling face of Birney's devoted, but frightened, John, especially when he's trying to convince himself and others that everything will be all right. Celia Keenan-Bolger's Jenny is a likeable, competent young woman who is no match for her mother -- "Why must you be so mean so fast?" she cries after Emily lashes out at her -- yet cannot face her in her weakened state. Victor Williams is compelling as Emily's right-hand man, especially in a scene in which he lets John know that he is no stranger to out-of-the-blue tragedy.

There's a pleasing spareness to Loy Arcenas' scenic design, in which small arrangements of furniture roll into a setting suggestive of one of Emily's unfinished buildings. David Weiner's lighting frames the action with angular washes; his careful handling of the climactic bedroom encounter adds to the scene's power. Ilona Somogyi's costumes feel contemporary and authentic to the characters. Robert Kaplowitz's sound design includes a battery of effects -- birdsong, autos, partygoers -- that become more noticeable as Emily's senses fade. He also contributes his own original music, dominated by pizzicato strings, which acutely suggests the stress afflicting the Bridges.

What sets A Small Fire apart from other, weepier disease dramas is its overarching sense of mystery; clearly, Bock seems to say, we all live inches away from disaster. His acceptance of that fact -- and his ability to find grace in it -- makes this an exceptionally powerful experience.--David Barbour