Original Article here.
By Mark Hughes Cobb Staff Writer
Trained ears recognize Mozart before it's back-announced on public radio, even from a previously unheard work. Common strains and refrains, themes and variations, run through an artist's oeuvre, complications rising from the inherent complexity of looking inward, then turning those discoveries to light and life.
Picture a play in 20th-century Deep South, with language rich and heady as magnolias in bloom, a domineering mother who overruns a sensitive young woman, throwing blocks between her and a decent gentleman caller, tied up in an overly perfumed bow of oppressive societal mores, and put your money on Tennessee Williams.
It isn't Laura, Blanche nor Maggie the Cat at heart in "The Eccentricities of a Nightingale," though streams of each travel through Alma Winemiller (Chelsea Reynolds), DNA strands peeled apart, then rewound into yet another complex heroine.
Alma's more demanding than Laura, less damaged than Blanhe, honest and direct as Williams' stronger maternal characters. She's vivid as a neon sign, flickering maybe, but glowing, expressive. Alma craves more, more, more; the heady rush of desire overtakes and ironically pushes away what she'd pull near. Her outer world will always disappoint, never vibrate at her frequency, even when she forces fluttery energy outward. A church and wedding singer, she's mocked for overly generous gestures, extremity of expressions, but in turn, can't fathom how a body can just hold still.
She's too much for most, including an otherwise kind father (William Green), who wonders if she could just tamp it down, keep her hands from flying away; he's overwhelmed dealing with Alma's much-needier mother (Kaki Clements). She's persona non grata to Mrs. Buchanan (Deborah Parker), mother of young doctor John (Ross Birdsong), the neighbor Alma fixates on from her bedroom window, which peeks into his. John's one of the few who accepts her oddities, and even helps smooth her edges, some. He's near perfect, kind, open-hearted ... all but for that mama's boy thing.
Momzilla's buffing his societal shine, talking up a dream wife, a perfect life. She steers John so severely away from Alma, rebellion's fuels a spark. There is something between John and Alma, whether a simple, open friendship, or opposites attracting, his grace and passivity enlivened by her fire and abandon. It's a testament to both writing and performances that it's unclear exactly what Alma ultimately wants: Love? Lust? Companionship? Does she consciously choose John for the balance he'd bring? Even as Alma's brutal honesty runs throughout, there's a compelling, rich ambivalence to work's ending.
Director Raines Carr feels this material deeply, and brought that out with his cast and crew. Williams was too adept to create black-and-white characters, but he may as well have shone a perpetual spotlight on Alma, beautifully played by Reynolds in a gem of actor alchemy that seems more like possession than interpretation. There are no seams. The only thing showing is Alma, in all her speed-rapping frenzy, embodying the heartbreak that, in this tiny, backwards town, her wit, brilliance and vitality will never find its equal. And yet she still feverishly persists.
Birdsong charms as John, nicely balanced, nuanced self-effacing boy-man, still finding his footing, secure enough to let Ma win for now, because he's playing a long game. The only thing wrong with John isn't the actor's fault: Who would choose dull respectability over a shooting star?
Green and Parker carry the paternal roles with pro skill, shading less-understanding moments with generous clarity of heart: They mean well, and are doing what they think best. Clements inhabits with unnerving ease the disturbed woman who shows the dangers of an Alma let entirely loose. Each of the supporting cast finds his or her niche as Alma's fellow oddballs, a kind of club, a bulwark against the world.
There's lovely original music in the show, some recorded, some sung live, written by Raphael Crystal, and fitting the hothouse flower motif lovingly. The set's a ghostly, silvery-blue-white work by Charles Moncrief that can suggest a wintry New Orleans cemetery, or a chilly interior, with just a few shifts of furniture, or light shifts and shades by Genarro Seno. Cecilia Gutierrez aptly dresses the cast in clothing that makes you forget costumes, despite the period ambiance.
After Theatre Tuscaloosa's "The Real Queen of Hearts Ain't Even Pretty," which shares with "Nightingale" some Southern flavors and feels, it's yet another craftily composed and deftly executed work that rewards attention. It's all there for you, but the "it" can be found in layers.