The audience’s shuffling and chattering is
stunned into silence as Bernadette, powerfully played by Shannon Tarbet,
appears infront of the stage and captivates us with just one look. A breath, while we take in this teenage girl
in a winter coat and school uniform, brimming with intensity and a darkness
behind her eyes. She takes a seat on a
stool, framed by a border of flowers and three walls covered with
ornate-looking mirrors. She holds a
leather notebook in perfect stillness.
We wait.
A daringly long time passes until, prepared
and composed, Bernadette opens the notebook and begins to read. There is an intriguing discord between
herself and the text, as if she is reading someone else’s diary for the first
time. We learn that she is pregnant -
unbeknownst to her boyfriend Michael - and she is journeying to New York to
reach him. But what we really want to
know is, who is this girl? Why is this
story written down, and why does she feel so compelled to tell it?
She reads on, her flow occasionally broken
by unfamiliar noises or distractions within her own attention. The first is a burst of noise from a
television set that petrifies us all, adding to the already unsettled atmosphere
of the piece. It is as if the outside
world is trying to penetrate this one surrounded by flowers and mirrors, and it
alerts us to consider our own role – are we part of her imagination? These moments build across the piece, softening
in intensity and growing in clarity as we get to know the character of
Bernadette, and as she lets us get to know her.
The process is gradual, and what is
withheld in vocal or character clues is compensated for in visual ones. As Bernadette’s story unravels, as do the
physical barriers around her. She
removes her coat, unties her hair and takes off her school tie. But still, painful events are relayed matter
of factly, even once she has put the notebook down and tells us the story
herself. Our pay off, graciously, is
when Bernadette allows herself some release – to dance, to smoke, to play music
loudly and smash things against the walls.
And yet, these are not the most heart-wrenching moments. Something strange is happening, wherein
Bernadette’s otherwise composure and hesitation to connect to her emotions is
what is most difficult to watch.
She ties her hair back up, and addresses us
once more, poker-faced.
All of these frames of narrative - the
notebook, the theatrical set and an audience before her – seem to be there for
her own protection. But protection from what? Even within the story itself, she tells lies
to the people she meets. Having given up
waiting for Michael at his house, she pretends to a man she meets in a bar that
she is Diana the anthropology student, and allows him to take her to a hotel
room. Here she displays maturity beyond
her years, and as the truth unravels, as does the security of the previous
pretence. While “Marc with a C” sleeps,
it begins to snow. But Bernadette feels
numb to it, as if she is existing outside of her own body. It’s time to stop pretending.
Her reaction to this revelation is to rip
the set apart and the remains are cleared away.
But now, what protection does she have left? Not quite ready to confront the situation
alone, she returns to the notebook, and reads furtively by a ghost light.
Slowly the desperation eases and the
mysterious atmosphere from the beginning of the piece is almost entirely
cleared away. We know her story, and we
have witnessed the demolition of the barriers in her mind. She is alone, besides her audience, and the
general feeling is that Bernadette has reached some sort of closure. She has an abortion and the relationship with
Michael comes to an end, but the denouement of these plotlines is secondary to
Bernadette’s own resolution. What Adam Rapp,
Shannon Tarbet and this sensitive production communicate is the gorgeous
fragility not only of a teenage girl hurtling towards adulthood and the real
world, but of all of our experiences of the world outside the one we create for
ourselves.
It
is a lonely world, the world at the edge of our bodies.
Bernadette turns her back on us and leaves
through a door at the back of the stage.
She holds out her hands and laughs in the
snow.
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