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I vehemently maintain that the most brilliant discoveries are often stumbled upon without rhyme, reason, or warning. It’s why I strictly adhere to the tenets of keeping an open mind, despite being set in my ways: for as much as I’d love to rewatch that Bette Davis film again, I should expand my repertoire and instead give something else a whirl. My track record, unfortunately, isn’t 100 percent, since I’m only human: but during one of these fortuitous Old Hollywood film breaks, I elected to watch something that felt as if it had been crafted particularly for me. It’s been a whole week since I watched the entirety of THE WICKHAM WAY unfold on the live YouTube premiere hosted by The New Works Virtual Festival, and it hasn’t left my mind since. All the marvel and awe I held for it remains as fresh and piquant as ever. From the second I became acquainted with its premise, I’ve felt an unmistakable compulsion to write about it.
I’m voracious in my consumption and pursuit of knowledge, particularly when it pertains to anything that really strikes my fancy. So naturally, as one does, I took to Google after the play’s brilliant conclusion. I was absolutely flummoxed to discover that the search yielded hardly any results — how could such a gem of a play be so unknown? I hope that I can persuade you, reader, to check out this marvel of a production, since it so desperately deserves more recognition than it’s currently garnered.
I’ll start by detailing the circumstances that brought me to that fateful decision to deviate from my black and white movie queens. It began a week earlier, when I was first acquainted with the New Works Festival by way of actress Joely Fisher. Through her twitter I learned she was to be featured in one of the leading roles of a play by the name of SO WHEN ARE YOU LEAVING?, written by Sheila Rinear. I went in with the intention of watching for her — as I’m a fan — and was thoroughly pleased. Naturally, when I caught wind that her sister, Tricia, would be featured in another production, I was more than sold.
Because the first production had been so engaging, I’m pleased to say I abdicated my movie rituals with relative ease. So I turned off NOW, VOYAGER and hooked up my laptop. My roommate and I settled in our respective positions on the couch (I on the right, she on the left, with a pillow masterfully placed between us) and buckled up for the ride. I’ll put it plainly — I did not expect to be reduced to tears going into this production. I’m very emotional, sure, but it isn’t a frequent occurrence that I cry during performances. THE WICKHAM WAY managed this feat with relative ease, and my roommate has the evidence to prove it: if you ever want to see me blubbering, we can arrange it.
THE WICKHAM WAY, written by Rachel Rubin Ladutke, masterfully weaves together two themes that are both very central to my core identity: not only does it poignantly explore the visceral terrors of accepting one’s sexuality, but it does so through the exposition of tough, stalwart, and ultimately loveable New Englanders. It’s more than just a rustic portrait of rural Vermont, and through extensive character development studies the intense heights of internalized homophobia. It transcends a story defined by queer love by making it tangible, normal, and accessible, while all the while retaining its unique originality. Liza and her girlfriend, Marti, are more than just their respective sexualities. By that same logic, the tiny town of Wickham is far more than just a pretty backdrop.
The plot is straightforward but peppered with bouts of intrigue that keep things chugging along at an excitable pace. Though it is a piece composed nearly entirely of dialogue, it invokes urgency and action, masterfully never lulling even in its most mundane moments. Dark secrets are teased throughout, slowly rearing their heads in a series of grippingly raw, personal reveals. There’s no need for the added fodder of commentary or explanation: Ladutke brings us into the room with the Morse and Cooper/Brewster family. We see, hear, and learn everything we need to know about the characters through their interactions with one another. It’s an art of precision that works brilliantly when mastered, but all too often never is. Ladutke’s writing is a pleasant and long-awaited revelation. She sets an exemplary standard that should be thoroughly examined by those who wish to create the same profundity in dialogue driven expositions.
Ladutke’s greatest strength resides in her characterizations. I’ve seen many films (and read many novels) that fail to bring even half the depth to their players that she does so effortlessly in THE WICKHAM WAY. Within a matter of mere minutes, it seems as if the viewer has known Liza all their life. Her personality — strong, stubborn, and defensive — is easily established and sets the plot into motion. Now an up and coming musician living in Boston with her girlfriend, Marti, Liza is en route to her childhood town of Wickham in order to perform in honor of her old music teacher, Mrs. Morse, who has recently passed. She is reluctant to go, and despondent about having to face her past. Though she acts cool and indifferent, it’s merely a guise for the fear and unresolved trauma that such a visit will unearth. Marti is flamboyant by comparison, and visibly more comfortable with her sexuality. She wants for them to be perceived as a couple, while Liza hedges.
Her fear is masqueraded by a casual indifference — she claims that it’s not important to make a show of their relationship, that it doesn’t matter. In her eyes, they’ve already surmounted the biggest hurdle, which was coming out to her parents: anybody else, she feels, is an unnecessary witness. It’s none of their business, she claims, and in a way she’s right — but for the wrong reasons. Sure, it’s nobody’s business, but why is Liza so particularly resistant to self-expression? If she truly didn’t care, then why would she be so averse to other people’s judgement? The tone for the play is set. Slowly, Ladutke begins to extricate the deep routed cause of her apprehension, which culminates in a traumatic confrontation all too familiar to many queer individuals. It’s hard enough to put this distinctive nuance into words — how Ladutke exemplifies it in an entire play is an incredible feat in and of itself.
The character with the strongest presence — and the driving catalyst for the entire plot — is ironically the one character that’s never visible. While Liza is slowly forced to reckon with her past, the silent mastermind behind it all is none other than the recently deceased Mrs. Morse. Her character is fleshed out through her relationships to all the central players, but it is Liza who truly brings out her most dynamic traits. It’s made clear from the very beginning that Liza harbors no desire to revisit the skeletons in her closet, preferring to move forward without ever looking back — and she is firm in this resolve. However, she compromises her way of life because of her relationship with Mrs. Morse. If someone — living or dead — has that much power to cajole Liza into returning, it’s more than telling of their gravitational pull. And just as this preliminary introduction speculates, we do come to find that the entire play orbits around the centrality of her presence, still very much alive and vivid in spirit despite her tangible absence.
As the story continues to unfold, we learn more about this matriarch than anybody else in the play through various recollections. She inhabits more roles than any other character presented, acting as a teacher, friend, confidant, wife, and grandmother. Her influence extends far beyond the limits of the inn where everybody ultimately congregates. Most importantly, she bridges the two families, acting as a matriarch of a hybrid family bound equally by dysfunction and reverence. It is for her sake that the families come together to resolve their differences and move forward; and it is in her former house where all of this ultimately transpires. The strength of Ladutke’s writing brings her essence to life, and despite her physical absence she’s as omnipresent as every other character in the play.
Perhaps my favorite facet of THE WICKHAM WAY is the dynamic, intersectional approach in which it takes in examining sexuality and its conjunction with nature, nurture, and environment. A prominent character featured alongside Liza and Marti is Charlie Abner, the one time best friend of Liza. Like Liza, he also identifies as homosexual. The building tensions between the two former friends fuels the story: before his proper introduction, the audience’s perception of Charlie is unsavory at best. His revelation is deliberately intriguing. What exactly did he do to traumatize Liza so badly? In any other case the logical assumption would be assault, but given his explicitly stated sexuality, this seems an unlikely possibility. We’ve learned everything we know about him through the cryptic intonations of Liza, who maintains that he ruined her life. It is only later that we learn just what happened, and how important comprehension and communication are, particularly when broaching sensitive subjects. Trauma on Liza’s end misinterpreted his blunder as malice, creating a wide rift which seemingly cannot be bridged.
When we finally come to the play’s climax, we are disarmed by a sudden onset of raw vulnerability. The bandage has been ripped off, and we’re left with nothing standing between us and the open wound. It stings, hurts even. It’s uncomfortable and begs to be buried again, when in reality it needs to surmount the pain in order to move forward and heal. The themes Ladutke broaches are delicate and dripping with nuance — yet she handles and applies them masterfully, creating an invasively true to life authenticity without ever giving way to offense. Not only does she speak for Liza and Marti, but for other queer individuals wrought with the same dilemmas — and even beyond that, any marginalized individual who has felt the scorn of society. It’s a deeply specific artery that, at the same time, is so brilliantly accessible to all walks of life.
What ensues, then, is best described as an intricate cross-section of wounded personalities that struggle to resolve and make sense of traumas both familiar and foreign to them. It is a story that sheds light on unpleasantries often overlooked or disregarded in familial situations. Instead of avoiding conflicts of this nature, Ladutke attacks them head-on and captures it in a way that lends to depth, authenticity, and concomitantly presents a visceral portrait of humanity in its most fragile moments. It leaves no stone unturned in its exploration of sexuality, giving as much attention to how the other, non-queer characters are affected as it does to Charlie, Marti, and Liza. It’s refreshing to see both sides examined so thoroughly, and adds yet another layer of dimension to the play.
The very talented cast of NEW WORKS VIRTUAL FESTIVAL’S production of Rachel Rubin Ladutke’s THE WICKHAM WAY
I have only the highest of accolades for the incredibly skilled cast that, for me, transformed this piece into an entrancing, immersive experience. A well written play on its own is great, but brought to life by a roster of talented actors takes it to a whole new realm of brilliance. Eden Espinoza epitomizes everything I envisioned Liza to be, spouting her every line with conviction. Jenna Leigh Green plays an excellent foil as Marti, always bright, peppy, and positive despite Liza’s recalcitrance — together, the two have great chemistry. Tricia Leigh Fisher nails her role as the kind, quirky, and open-minded Aunt Shelby, delivering her lines with great wit and bolstering the production with much needed comic relief. Stuart Pankin stuns as Abner, encompassing arguably the most difficult role with dedicated pathos. And Adam Jacobs is wonderful as Charlie, rounding off a stellar team of creative professionals that so generously awarded us this performance. Kudos to everybody involved, including those behind the scenes. One of the better productions I’ve seen in a long time, and certainly more relevant than ever in today’s day and age. Brava to all!
You can check out the production for yourself here — promise you won’t regret it!
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