Cast of Pelican Soars

Although it runs the full gamut of human trauma—family abuse, violence and deception— “Pelican” suggests that through revelation of these griefs, even the grimmest of tales can end in hope. One of the darkest shows that the Loeb Experimental Theater has seen this year, “Pelican” demonstrates the futility of “sleepwalking” through life in denial of abuse. This production of “Pelican” avoids sleepwalking in any form, and the cast and crew have navigated a difficult play with aplomb, galvanizing August Strindberg’s work with energy and passion.

Running from March 16-24, “Pelican” is the product of an unlikely trio. Director Rowan W. Dorin ’07 and his crew, led by producers Xin Wei Ngiam ’07 and Currun Singh ’07, have collaborated with Swedish translators in the Harvard Scandinavian Club and the Athena Theater Company to merge two of Strindberg’s later plays. They have successfully created a coherent narrative, linking the themes of the abstract and dense “The Isle of the Dead” with the more expository language of “The Pelican.”

Seen from the perspective of a dead man (James M. Leaf ’09) who must face his past before leaving it behind, “Pelican” tells the story of a mother (Jennifer J. Malin ’09)—presumably the dead man’s wife—who starves her children (Barry A. Shafrin ’09 and Laurel T. Holland ’09) and allows them to suffer neglect, sexual trauma, and domestic abuse. The show’s title refers to a myth that pelicans feed their young with their blood, if necessary. Their father’s death sets in motion a chain of events that uncovers the mother’s actions despite years of deception.

“Pelican” is especially noteworthy for the freshness of its cast; first-years occupied all but two of the starring roles. For several first-years who were involved in major productions their first semester, Strindberg’s work has provided an opportunity to build upon their success.

Leaf plays a crucial role as the father whose dreamlike perspective links “The Isle of the Dead” to “Pelican.” He brings a certain befuddled ingenuousness to the “Isle of the Dead” sequence, and when sent to the audience to watch “Pelican” as a kind of final reckoning, Leaf successfully presents the anguish of a helpless onlooker.

Faced with the difficult task of portraying a character both pathetic and despicable, Malin succeeds at making the audience empathize with a monster. Her performance at times appears to lack focus in its histrionics, but Malin demonstrates her substantial talent through her ability to show the mother’s bipolar nature, switching from a simpering girl to a snappish hag with ease.

Shafrin gives one of the strongest performances of the show as the bitter, haunted son, Frederick. Although Frederick is the agent for much of “Pelican’s” exposition, Shafrin also brings a much-needed levity to the show, with frequent paranoid references to the power of “the mafia.” He adds small touches to the role, like a drunk’s stagger or an abused child’s shiver, that make Frederick’s character fully-fleshed.

Dorin (an HRDC veteran who produced last semester’s “The Alchemist”) does a fantastic job of mediating these performances and evoking a mood that is dark and Gothic, yet not totally hopeless. Dorin’s choice of a play-within-a-play form really suits the inward-focused themes that characterize both plays: the loneliness of physical deprivation, the importance of writing as a tool for communication, and the possibility of an ancestral cycle of trauma and abuse. His combination and emphasis of these themes makes Strindberg’s drama psychologically as well as artistically powerful.

The set reinvents the Loeb Ex to bring the complexity of Strindberg to full fruition. “Pelican” is presented in the round, with the audience surrounding the stage—a choice that Dorin explained was an attempt to embody the sense of claustrophobia that pervades the play. Set designer Blasé E. Ur ’07’s skillful handling of that effect successfully engages the audience in a way that Ex shows rarely achieve.

One of the most creative set details is the placement of rocking chairs on high pillars around the theater. Their elevation completes the sense of enclosure and draws the attention of the audience upwards, especially when the empty chairs suddenly start rocking wildly as the actors progressively anger the watching father—perfectly capturing the absurd, otherworldly element that runs throughout the play.

That element works especially well in contrast to the drabness of the costumes (designed by Casey M. Lurtz ’07), which uniquely complemented each character’s suffering in their simple styles. The mother’s dress was the piece de resistance, a frumpy black robe that evoked a pelican in its stuffy folds.

The music, compiled by Dorin, is fundamental to the show. Although the mix of late twentieth-century Soviet chamber works and Chopin is overwhelming during the initial “Isle of the Dead” sequence, its more delicate application to the interludes between the scenes of “Pelican” is particularly well done, supplementing the haunted quality of the work.

“Pelican and the Isle of the Dead” is a work built on ambiguity; everyone lies, and no character is entirely free of suspicion or guilt. It is only by eliminating that ambiguity—in seeking the truth of their mother’s actions and admitting the truth of their abuse—that Frederic and his sister Gerda are able to achieve peace. That conclusion “Pelican” ends on a hopeful note, despite the dark journey it took to get there.

—Staff writer Mary A. Brazelton can be reached at mbrazelt@fas.harvard.edu.