Dark humor only succeeds through sympathetic characters. If the audience recognizes, or at least identifies with, the plight of the characters they can find irony and humor even in the most morose situations.
Jessica Goldberg’s “Refuge,” directed last weekend in the ’92 Theater by Jessica Posner ’09, poignantly portrayed the remnants of an incomplete family suffering from loss, and collectively suffocating in a bleak small town. Remarkably, however, through Goldberg’s characterization and Posner’s staging, the humor of the piece shined through this otherwise-grim portrait, surprising and engaging the audience.
“Refuge” depicts the lives of twenty-something Amy (Daphne Schmon ’09), her troubled teenage sister, Becca (Carter Smith ’09) and their college-age brother, Nat (Carmen Melillo ’09), who suffers mental and physical damage due to a removed brain tumor. After Nat’s accident, Amy’s parents left her to watch her younger sister and brother while they vacationed in Florida, sending a postcard a few weeks later informing Amy they would not be returning. Since Nat needs constant care, and Becca begs for Amy’s unwavering attention, Amy stays in her childhood home to take care of her sister and brother: the former snorting cocaine at the breakfast table, the latter suffering from what seems to be epileptic seizures and bouts of depression.
The show opens with Amy bringing Sam (Erik Holum ’10) home from a bar for the evening. Though Sam originally seems to be little more than a one-night stand, he surprisingly turns up the next day, asking for a room to rent. Amy agrees, and pulls Sam into a seemingly nightmarish life of little money and no prospects.
All four actors succeeded in portraying remarkably realistic characters. Melillo, faced with the challenge of playing a mentally and physically-handicapped character, depicted Nat quite realistically, while Holum touchingly and humorously illustrated Sam’s loneliness. Smith exceptionally shadowed her character’s sense of abandonment and need for attention through pill-popping and cocaine-snorting, allowing the audience to easily sympathize with whiny, needy Becca. But, it was Schmon’s Amy that particularly arrested and involved the audience. Schmon captured the weight of Amy’s responsibility in her character’s every action, speaking in a low, dominant tone and moving with a sense of purposeful urgency. As in last year’s “The Deceased Woman,” Schmon once again proved her presence and ability onstage: contrasting Amy’s heartbreaking longing to leave with her reluctant resignation to stay, while always finding humor in her character’s utterly bleak situation.
Every character in Goldberg’s play is searching for a refuge from reality. Amy loses herself in novels, Becca pops pills, and Nat spends hours in front of the television or writing in his journal. The siblings talk over and around each other without ever reaching or attempting to understand one another. Yet Sam, once a drifter, stays with Amy and her family and eventually asks for Amy’s hand in marriage. Uncomprehending, Amy wonders what worth Sam could find in her miserable household; yet the audience understands that Sam has found his refuge in Amy and her siblings, a place to settle and shield himself from the harrowing choices he would face if he continued to drift. The show closes with a portrait of Amy in her mother’s wedding dress, resigning herself and her family to a life of hiding in the haven of each other.
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