When some individuals are diagnosed with cancer, they choose to keep their health struggles private. This decision often stems from a wish to shield loved ones from distress or to avoid being seen as victims. It can also be a matter of personal autonomy.
In the poignant play “Little Bear Ridge Road” by Samuel D. Hunter, the acclaimed actress Laurie Metcalf, known for her roles in “Roseanne” and “The Conners,” embodies such a character. She plays Sarah, a tough and determined woman from Idaho, the playwright’s home state. Sarah is a staunchly independent, red-state American who despises dependency. At one point, she fiercely declares, “It’s no one’s business but mine! It’s my body!” followed by, “Can I just have control over one thing, just my own damn body?”
“Little Bear Ridge Road” was originally commissioned with this same cast by the Steppenwolf Theatre in Chicago. It is one of three productions within a year to transition from this iconic, half-century-old theater to Broadway. This move is largely thanks to the efforts of Scott Rudin, a producer once shunned, but a longtime collaborator with Steppenwolf, along with Metcalf and talented director Joe Mantello. Mantello, known for directing “Wicked,” now seems to prefer steering clear of large-scale productions.
The play “Little Bear” features a small cast of four characters: Metcalf’s Sarah; her withdrawn nephew Ethan, portrayed by Micah Stock; Ethan’s potential love interest, James, played by John Drea; and a healthcare worker, briefly appearing as Meighan Gerachis. The minimalist set, designed by Scott Pask, features only a beige couch.
The storyline is deceptively simple. Ethan, a Millennial grappling with his creative writing MFA, returns from Seattle to manage his late father’s modest estate, further complicated by his father’s meth addiction. Ethan finds himself stuck, and “Little Bear” explores this theme of being trapped, unable to let go of the past to embrace necessary changes in life.
The crux of this 90-minute theatrical experience is not just whether the aunt and nephew, who are essentially each other’s only family, can move past their guilt and resentment to build a meaningful relationship. The play challenges whether they can acknowledge their need for such a connection—if they indeed need it at all.
If you are someone who finds it hard to talk about personal feelings, or love someone in that category, especially if that someone is in existential crisis, you will likely find this play very moving.
Even by Metcalf’s lofty standards, this is one stunner of a performance.
I’ve seen it twice now and it has only deepened. At one point, a moment I don’t want to spoil with more detail, Sarah’s pain gets vocally manifest in a great, guttural howl, or it would if Sarah could sufficiently unblock her voice.
Metcalf is one of the few great actors who can show you both of these things at once: the feelings her character can express and those she cannot. If you are a student of how actors illuminate subtext while simultaneously honoring how trapped some Americans get in repressed feelings, it’s a revelation. And Cole, who puts everything he has into the ring with this heavyweight prize-fighter, rises to meet Metcalf at every moment he can.
The other thing about Metcalf is that she is determinedly unpretentious. Most characters in plays are far more articulate and self-confident than we are in reality, and thus most actors learn to be the same.
Hunter even includes one of those very characters in this play; the possible boyfriend who has had a charmed life by comparison and struggles to understand a different kind of childhood. He’s sweet, verbose and clueless and Drea has the assignment down.
Metcalf has the opposite assignment. Her secret weapon is her disdain for over-articulation, her empathic determination to honor those who struggle to speak for themselves, and that’s exactly what Hunter brings to the party as a playwright.
It’s a spectacular combination that is, in today’s American theater, unique.
