Three Tall Women

All too often, theater critics begin their reviews with one or two bare factoids about the play or playwright that are meant to serve as context. With Edward Albee's Pulitzer-winning (see?) Three Tall Women, there really is one important thing to keep in mind: this is about Albee's adoptive mother. Their relationship was thorny, to say the least; Albee has described the play as "an exorcism." I think this is may be the key not only to understanding the play, but its towering reputation. Theater as therapy usually serves the author better than the audience and though Albee is one of the few playwrights talented enough to make such an exercise work, there's still something unsatisfying about Three Tall Women, as if it's too personal. (Lyric Stage Company has helpfully included an essay about Albee and his family history in the program.) But coming from a playwright known for being caustic and opaque, a play that's humane by his standards and elegant by any standard, is almost a relief. And with the added value of seeming to offer insight into Albee's entire oeuvre, Three Tall Women is perhaps easy to over praise.

That's more an observation than an objection, for the play is certainly well written. In fact it's so precise in its language and rhythms, and the roles are so juicy, that I wondered if director Spiros Veloudos's biggest challenge was just getting out of the way. Set in a sickroom, albeit a poshly appointed one, the play begins with the querulous and aged A (Anne Scurria) being attended by her matronly home health aide B (Paula Plum) and C (Liz Hayes,) a young representative from A's lawyer. C has dropped by to clear up some accounts, but her impatience is no match for A's indomitability. From the imperious way she regales her attendants with rants and reminiscences it's clear that A was once a formidable woman, though now she's like a castle that's crumbling before our eyes. Betrayed by her failing body and worse, by her failing mind, A shifts from confused to bitter to pained to raging from minute to minute. It's an incredibly challenging role, and an equally incredible performance from Scurria, who is always convincing; the childlike fear she registers when she realizes she's forgotten what she was saying is haunting. Plum is nicely subtle as the weary caretaker who regards her charge with a prickly blend of protectiveness and condescension. Hayes doesn't have much to do in the first act, but everything changes in the second act, when the three actresses metaphorically merge.

After suffering a stroke, A lies dreaming in her bed and the play becomes a sort of monologue for three voices, with the actresses representing A at the ages of 26, 52 and 92. The self-serving memories of act one are carefully re-examined and argued over as A unravels her life story. It's a fascinating three part disharmony, with each of her selves at least as dismayed by the other two as by the litany of life's disappointments (loveless marriage, unsatisfying affairs, distant son, etc.) Each of the selves thinks she's living the best time of her life; the na?ve C quivers with life and desire, and denies the possibility of becoming the cynical B or the bitchy A; B fancies herself the most content and clear-eyed of the trio; while this version of A has learned patience, if only the patience to wait for death's release. That dour message - that we start dying the moment we're born, that life is an inexorable decline, and that death will be a relief - makes the first act's unflinching look at senility seem like good times indeed.

Perhaps it's just the sheer weight of the play's cold negativity that left me feeling unsatisfied by the end, impressed but unmoved. Despite the wonderful performances and sensitive direction, despite Albee's dazzling virtuosity in the second act, despite his courage in staring at death, there's something too distant and cerebral about this abstracted meditation on life. I didn't leave the Lyric feeling invigorated by the experience the way one would hope to leave a play, be it comic or tragic. I think that's because the most crucial part of the experience, the satisfaction in coming to terms with A, belongs to Albee alone.