Sometimes, we think emotions need to be loud and pronounced to be real. We need to glow when in love, cheery when happy, or visibly miserable and dramatic when in pain. Rabbit Hole veers away from those usual trappings and expectations of human nature. The show thrives in restraint and silence. Ultimately, Rabbit Hole presents a sensitive picture of the honesty within the overwhelming power of pain by giving voice to the gaps present in a fractured soul and household.
Written by David Lindsay-Abaire, Rabbit Hole is a Pulitzer Prize winning play, which follows the life of suburban couple, Becca and Howie as they try to recover from the heartbreaking loss of their four-year old son, Danny. Their processing of pain and loss is populated by Becca’s sister Izzy and mother Nat as well as Jason, the boy who accidentally killed Danny.
The show’s director Topper Fabregas is mostly responsible for the tone of the show. Given the nature of the material, it is easy to be swayed to just go full-blown melodramatic – filled with loud screams and epic cry-fests. This treatment; however, is both lazy and predictable. And Fabregas knows it. Given this, the first-time director engineered a calculated presentation of the material peppered with twisted humor and restrained emotions, blanketed by an overwhelming silence of grief.
The cast, on the other hand, worked as a true ensemble to breathe life to the characters. From Agot Isidro’s controlled interpretation of Becca, Michael William’s vulnerable performance as Howie, Che Ramos-Cosio’s energetic portrayal of Becca’s sister Izzy, Sheila Francisco’s layered depiction of Becca’s mother Nat, to Ross Pesigan’s innocent presence as Jason, the actors engagingly mapped out the emotional geography of the household’s sorrow. Admittedly, there are certain parts where the performances feel a little downplayed, but the inherent weight of the material manages to cover for these weak spots.
Complementing the tone and performances is the show’s technical design. Leveraging on the benefits of a modern thrust stage, Red Turnip builds an elaborate house while keeping the intimacy with the audience intact. Through this, the audience does not become just a distant spectator, but a voyeur who watches and invisibly participates in the events on stage. The lights punctuate the mood and tone of various scenes well. The way light faded at the show’s end while playing with shadows is a clever touch.
Sound has the ability to fill spaces. Red Turnip’s Rabbit Hole makes use of this knowledge, albeit in a more progressive approach. The production knows the value of silence. It is its quiet moments that scream the presence of guilt and agony; its power lies in the empty spaces among the characters, especially Becca and Howie.
It is noteworthy how brave and unapologetic Red Turnip’s selection of materials is. We’ve seen it in Closer and Cock, and it remains true with Rabbit Hole. The show does not prescribe. Rather, it recognizes the multiple layers and the wide geography of dealing with pain and loss. It lays out a roadmap – not to impose how one should deal with pain – but simply to show that there are different ways of doing so.
In the end, Rabbit Hole is a gripping tale of the overwhelming power of pain and the honesties behind it. It doesn’t say that pain just goes away, rainbows suddenly pop up and there’s a happily ever after. The pain is there; it is seething and regularly creeping, yet we just need to go forward. In its final scene, Becca and Howie sit together in the shadows. She asks Howie how they would move forward. Howie gently says he doesn’t know. It may not be enough, but sometimes, that’s as honest of a resolution that we can get and work with. And from there, one can better build the foundations of understanding and compassion – something we sorely lack today.
