There are “kitchen-sink” dramas. And then there are kitchen-sink dramas with an actual kitchen sink in them.
You know things are going to get serious when you’re greeted with the latter, which is the case with Matchstick Theatre’s new revival of “Leaving Home,” David French’s classic Canadian drama and the first work in his seminal Mercer cycle.
In director Jake Planinc’s production, which premiered in Nova Scotia and is now running at Toronto’s Coal Mine Theatre, the kitchen sink is prominently placed in Wesley Babcock’s stylish set, depicting a modest, mid-century home in Toronto. By the end of this two-hour drama, it’s piled high with filthy dishes, scraps of food and grimy cutlery — an apt visual metaphor for what has come before.
French’s 1972 play is steeped in naturalism, a portrait of a family whose relationships with each other are like a minefield embedded with latent grenades, which are triggered, one by one, over a single day.
That day is the eve of 17-year-old Bill Mercer’s (Sam Vigneault) shotgun wedding with his pregnant girlfriend, Kathy (Abby Weisbrot). But the story really revolves around Bill’s older brother, Ben (Lou Campbell), and his fraught relationship with their short-tempered father, Jacob (Andrew Musselman), a man whose mouth moves faster than his brain.
“Leaving Home,” however, is more than its narrative. It’s a tapestry of interwoven character studies. And at its centre is the mercurial Jacob. He’s hurt, bitter, impulsive. The source of his anger never seems certain. Is it out of love? Or out of pure spite for his children and his wife, Mary (Shelley Thompson)?
The play’s naturalism is accentuated in this production by Planinc’s in-the-round staging, with the audience completely surrounding the Mercers’ house. But almost across the board, the performances feel miscalibrated for the intimate space. Overly broad, sometimes more fitting for a sitcom rather than serious drama, they puncture the delicate script.
The actors try to do too much with French’s text, which should build, slowly yet inevitably, toward its painful climax. Dialogue is over-enunciated. Scenes in the first half are played with such full-throttled intensity that the play’s back end doesn’t crackle with the ferocity that it should have. Moments that should zip instead feel laboured.
Behind it all, French’s play remains an exquisitely constructed drama. But in this latest revival, it’s masked by an overpowered production.
