Playwright: Noah Haidle
At: Goodman Theatre, 170 N. Dearborn
Contact: ( 312 ) 443-3800; $10-$35
Runs through: Nov. 12
BY CATEY SULLIVAN
There are two moments of pure, transcendent joy in Noah Haidle's off-kilter and occasionally off-putting comedy, Vigils. One comes when Coburn Goss, wearing a tie like a reckless headband, caroms onto the stage and joins Johanna Day and Steve Key in doing the bus stop. It's a scene that captures an indelible, fleeting eternity ( not the paradox it may seem ) of loose-limbed happiness. The second such moment belongs to Goss alone, as he does a striptease that is at once infectiously goofy, wildly sexy and deeply life-affirming.
There's a profound dorkiness to both scenes—the bus stop was, after all, the epitome of late '70s cool and the striptease is jumping-on-the-bed rollicking rather than steamy-eyed sensual. Yet there's something indelibly wondrous about both—these are people immersed in moments of joy.
If the balance of Vigils doesn't live up to the giddy emotional peaks of those two scenes, well, there's still plenty to recommend it. Alternately evoking the sensibilities of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, Love Story and Peggy Sue Got Married, Vigils examines the life of a Widow ( Day ) . Two years after the death of her husband's Body ( Key ) , Widow is refusing to let his Soul ( Marc Grapey ) continue into the afterlife. Soul is kept locked in a chest near Widow's bed at night. During the day, Soul and Widow discuss their marriage and her inability to move on. Body shows up to enact memories from the marriage.
When Wooer ( Goss ) comes calling, the stage is set for a confrontation between past and present living, between holding on and letting go.
Kate Whoriskey's straightforward direction has Body, Soul, Wooer and Widow interacting as if they were four ordinary people hashing through issues of love and loss in a sitcom. 'It's hard for me to concentrate on my sexual technique when I know your dead husband is in here crying,' Wooer laments matter-of-factly at one point.
It's such matter-of-factness in the midst of what is a decidedly strange situation that makes Vigils seem disconnected at times. It's both naturalistic and surreal, often at the same time, and the juxtaposition is jarring. It's also evident in Walt Spangler's set, a spacious seaside abode that literally cracks apart ( helped along by Jason Lyons' pyrotechnic lighting effects as well as Michael Bodeen and Rob Milburn's explosive sound design ) whenever Widow recalls how her husband died.
Despite the disconnect, Haidle has a thru-line emotion running the length of Vigils. Loss and memory—of a child, a spouse or of a precious possibility—have the power to paralyze and to comfort. Yanking oneself out of the comfort zone so that life can go on is difficult. While that's a trite sentiment that nobody's going to argue with, its exploration in Vigils is, at times, moving.
