Skip to main contentThe arsonist sun bears down on a chaise longue holding a stately wreck, whose pallor and rictus seem to indicate death. This wreck, a woman, finely dressed and shod, with one leg carelessly thrown out and exposing stocking, is the greatest actress of the 19th century, if not all of the preceding ones: Sarah Bernhardt. Just as we have settled into this viewing of her corpse, the name "Pitou" suddenly erupts from her mouth.
John Murrell's play, Memoir, explores the relationship between Bernhardt and her secretary/Man Friday Georges Pitou. The play takes place in the last years of Bernhardt's life, which find her a spent force suffering from painful ailments and a desperate need to write her life's story. Pitou is a fastidious little man who seems to be engaged in a passive-aggressive war with the dying diva. Not only is he called upon to take dictation of her history, he is also forced to play characters from Bernhardt's past to better jog her memory.
But, at base, this unequal and conflicted relationship contains real affection. Pitou may torture the actress by withholding a parasol from her, but he is also doting when she is in agony.
Murrell's play is a very touching portrait of a woman who refuses to go gently into that proverbial good night, but it is also a very witty and theatrical piece, as is James William Cox's production. Cox has re-created this moment in a great life stylishly, and he's aided by two good performances.
JoAnn Johnson is, in many ways, perfect for the role. Johnson has a tendency toward the melodramatic and the stentorian, which often puts her at odds with more realistic and contemporary drama. But as the withering (in its multiple meanings) grande dame, Johnson is in her element. She is the defunct goddess of the wooden leg: coquettish, infuriating, regal and ludicrous. In many ways this is a far braver performance for Johnson than the role she played in Wit. Her emotional range is greater, and she easily wins our sympathy for her suffering that is, here, sincere rather than mannered and manufactured.
There is also the relish Johnson takes in the part, for she's unafraid to appear haggard and grotesque. She perfectly balances Bernhardt's bodily disintegration with her mind's manic will to last (at least until she can usher G.B. Shaw into the ground). Johnson hits a few false notes, but it's a commanding performance full of nuance and expansive gesture, never allowing a hint of monstrousness.
As Pitou, David Meyers also gets a rare chance to shine. His Pitou is fussy, haughty and mischievous. When commanded to impersonate the dead who litter Madam's memory, he grudgingly assumes the roles only to become completely possessed by them. Meyers' Oscar Wilde is particularly marvelous.
Valerie Kendall's set design, a sprawling patio on Bernhardt's island estate, is effective, though the patchy rockwork is a bit confusing. Emilea Rivera's costumes are fine, though they, especially Pitou's ensembles, seem to strike a time earlier than the 1920s.
Though the play explores the ways we wend toward death, it is very hopeful and humane: two qualities generally lacking in our current dark age.
CoHo Theatre, 2257 NW Raleigh St., 220-2646. 8 pm Thursdays- Saturdays, 2 pm Sundays. Closes June 21. $16-$18.
Copies of
, as well as a number of biographies, are available at Powell's Books.
WWeek 2015