"The Testament of Mary" - Review

Because I am working far, far away from New York right now I am sadly unable to see Broadway shows on a regular basis. In the meanwhile, my goal is to post a review every week or so and share my thoughts on a Broadway show from the last six years. The plan is to publish these reviews every Thursday or Friday, playing on the whole “throwback”/”flashback” concept we Millennials cherish so much.

But given this play’s opening in London last week as well as the recent celebration of Mother’s Day, I felt compelled to jump the gun a few days early and share my thoughts on Colm Tóibín’s one woman show, “The Testament of Mary”, starring Fiona Shaw.

Seeing this show on Broadway last April was one of the most thrilling experiences I have ever had in the theatre. It was one of those remarkable events that stick with you for quite some time.

From the moment the house opened, Ms. Shaw was seated on stage, clad in a Renaissance tunic, encased within a plastic box. Beside her sat a live vulture atop a wooden perch, without a trainer of any kind. Visually, this was an incredible spectacle. But more than that, it was a fully immersive experience. Each member of the audience was able to walk on stage, take pictures and look at Christ’s mother in all her splendor. She remained stoic and removed. Eyes wide open, she began murmuring something to herself, casually at first, then at light speed. Then, as the clock struck eight, the proscenium curtain fell to the ground with what seemed like a crack of thunder. As the lights came down with it, her plastic box was flown out, her Renaissance garb came off and the vulture left the stage.

After two thousand years, Mary was ready to break her silence.

Needless to say, Ms. Shaw was a master class in acting; a literal force of nature. Her vigorous command of the stage as Mary, the mother of Christ, was utterly breathtaking. Given the production's nomination for "Best Play" at the 2013 Tony Awards, Ms. Shaw's lack of a nomination in the "Best Actress" category was baffling to me as well as the theatre community at large. She was robbed, to say the absolute least. But I digress.

Sitting front row center, I fell into a trance of sorts, not speaking...barely breathing. I listened and I watched with the utmost intent. But it wasn’t just me. The entire house at the Walter Kerr Theatre grew deafeningly silent as Ms. Shaw began to talk, thousands of us hanging on her every word, anxiously waiting for the other blasphemous shoe to drop.

“I cannot say the name,” she admitted, somewhere at the top of the show. “It will not come, something will break in me if I say the name. So we call him, ‘him,’ ‘my son,’ ‘our son,’ ‘the one who was here,' ‘your friend,’ ‘the one you are interested in.’”

This set the tone for an extraordinary look into history’s most famous mother, and the aftermath of her unimaginable loss.

The show was directed beautifully by Deborah Warner, a longtime friend and colleague of Shaw for over twenty-five years. Together they have mounted famous productions of “Medea”, “Richard II”, “Mother Courage and Her Children”, Samuel Beckett’s “Happy Days”, as well as countless others, mostly on the West End.

Her direction here on Broadway was masterful. Throughout the show, she successfully complimented Tóibín’s theme of playing on the familiar. With Shaw as her vessel, Warner struck many familiar images of the Madonna and completely reshaped them. Like the pre-show, for example. Instead of glorifying the idea of a Mary we all know and love, it did something else. It depicted her as history does: confined to a box, peered upon by a vulture-like society.

But one must wonder, isn’t Mr. Tóibín apart of that same society that has judged and restricted her? In my opinion, “No.” He has merely opened the box and asked “What if?” 

It is a question that all art must answer to on some level...the Bible included.

Shaw during the pre-show. LASH Photography.

But at its core, “The Testament of Mary” is not a theological piece. It is a feminist banner, giving a timeless voice to one of Western culture's most famous women.  It is a testament for all mothers. All women. All people. Whether you agree with its many themes or not, there is a pulsating humanity to its story of a mother grieving her child.

She is not at peace. She is not understanding. She is human. And more than anything else, she wants her truth to be told. She wants the world to know who she is and what she did. And most importantly, she wants to hold her son again.

Until next time,

Jordan.