Christmas has always been rooted in magic and mysticism, from stories of blazing stars over a manger to jolly North Pole gift-givers and flying reindeer, to angels and benevolent saints.
A saint figure just for Stanley Park and one family in desperate need of emotional help was introduced to Theatre North West audiences this week.
TNW's latest play, The Patron Saint of Stanley Park is not only going to send audiences home with a renewed grasp of true Christmas priorities, it will also benefit the local economy. Nobody with any kind of conscience is going to drive straight home after this show and tuck into bed. There will be wine poured, tea brewed and at the very least a lot of tissues used up. They could make a lot of money for the theatre by selling them by donation in the foyer.
Yes, that is the first thing that must be said about this play. Do not, repeat: do not, enter the doors of the TNW performance space without pockets packed with tear-wipes. If you have ever been a parent or a kid, and there aren't many other kinds of people, this will push your love buttons.
Yes, it is a strong drink of Christmas emotion but it is laced with happiness, so the tears are worth it, but the tears are almost inevitable. I was a mess, went home, and woke up my children for extra hugs and snuggles, then clung to my wife during a debriefing session we both felt was needed. You'll probably feel the urge to call your family and besties, as well, and share any pent up appreciation for them all.
Underneath all this is a play that actually wasn't TNW at its best. Disbelief was hard to suspend (that lovely condition you fall into as an audience when you decide to forget you're watching a bunch of pretend people and places) at times, when set changes were going on too noticeably and scene segues made too clunkily.
When some of the early arguments were had between mom and her kids, or between the two siblings, it was too often stationary and stilted - not the way people naturally argue with activity and movement in and around the anger and angst.
Also, and this is not TNW's fault, the story takes place inside a weather event and all the splendorous sets and flashy lights in the world can't fully compensate for the lack of wind. It is difficult for any theatre to produce wind. We, the audience, have to step up on that point and go with the other effects.
However, the script itself is overwhelmingly well crafted. Like the love that prevails over the characters in the show, the bumpy parts are easily put in their place. If you catch the tiny but deliberate ironies like no cell service inside a wartime signal station, you enjoy it all the more. If you stick just to the to and fro of grief-stricken kids Josh and Jennifer, their barely-holding-it-together mother, their missing and presumed dead father, and the strangely inspiring Stanley Park drifter named Skookum (has this word ever been used in a play before, I wonder?) Pete, you can't help but feel, as Skookum Pete says "We are involved in something here." It wiggles into the subliminal recesses of your heart like the kids wriggle into an underground Stanley Park bunker.
I also noted that the bumpy aspects of the audience experience were strictly confined to the first act. Like the gathering of an epic storm, the plot and the performances build to a blast of a second half. All the talent within these remarkable actors erupted after intermission.
In brief, the mother, Jack and Jennifer are played by real-life family unit Anita Wittenberg, Sebastian Tow and Emma Tow. Their father is played by Jack Paterson and Skookum Pete is handled by Brian Linds.
Handled? More like totally inhabited. It helps that he's played the role before getting the nod for TNW's version. His comfort as the eccentric recluse became a comfort for the audience. He was not a "homeless guy" caricature. Pete was played almost straight, and gave us the impression all along that this was not someone to underestimate. And his soliloquy in the cafe is one of the great monologue deliveries in TNW history. He alone is worth the price of admission.
The kids were well-written characters, which gave the Tow teens a lot to work with, but off to fine starts they are, if theatre is their chosen profession. Slow starts turned into galloping performances by the end. It is these two who are most responsible for the blowing noses and quiet sobs that dotted the dark audience space as their respective sadnesses were played out for us. Their mother should be very proud.
Also, she should be proud of herself. Her lines painted her into a corner, to begin with, starting out with high emotional crossfire before we had a chance to get to know her, but Wittenberg found ways to bring her back down to accessibility later, and broke our hearts when she took a few key dance steps.
Director Melissa Thomas should be particularly proud of that scene. I'll say no more for fear of spoiling things for future audiences, but the last 30 minutes were winners in no small part because of choices she made in how people and other character elements were displayed.
And speaking of small parts, there are none. Although we see little of this play's father, Paterson needed to be spot-on when he was in our view, or everyone's effects would have been dulled. He carried the ball over the goal line, in a lot of ways, and I knew he was winning when I recognized myself in his parenting style.
Altogether, there's a lot of value in The Patron Saint of Stanley Park - family values most especially. I recommend you skip the red-eyed, siffly-nosed waking up of loved ones. Just bring them with you and have a group hug in the lobby when it's all over. And to my dearly missed dad out there in the ether, like the father in the play, merry Christmas to you most of all.
