In his solo show about the death of his teenage children, Colin Campbell recounts his calamitous relationship with the darkest of emotions.
Death is often described as a loss, but for Colin Campbell and his wife, it was a theft. On June 12, 2019, the couple’s children, Ruby and Hart, were killed by an inebriated driver in a horrific crash. Ruby was 17 and loved anime; Hart was 14 and worshiped hip-hop. A photograph of them even younger — bright-eyed and golden-haired — rests on a table like a shrine, one of the few props in Campbell’s brusque tragicomedy, “Grief: A One Man ShitShow.”
In “Grief,” directed by Michael Schlitt, Campbell recounts his relationship with the emotion. Before the bleak canvas of a back wall, Campbell, a writer and director of theater and film, begins his solo show with a warning of the semi-macabre journey to come: “Tonight, you are going to get taken to some uncomfortable places.” Seconds later, the lights dim and Campbell begins detailing that fatal night.
Campbell knows that memories aren’t kept only in the brain; they are also conjured by the tongue. So the remainder of “Grief” unfolds like a talking book of essays (Campbell recently wrote “Finding the Words: Working Through Profound Loss with Hope and Purpose”), weaving together the many ways friends and family fumble grief-talk with stories about Ruby and Hart. Campbell’s blunt delivery of the former often conflicts with his deeply felt recollections of the latter, but what is lost in his uneven performance is more than made up for by his vulnerability.
Campbell insists that “Grief” is not an act of sadomasochistic indulgence, nor is the act of dramatizing pain anything new. Sophocles and Aeschylus did it first. Campbell calls back to the Ancient Greek practice of gathering for the sole purpose of communal catharsis through theater, reminding us that “Oedipus” and “Agamemnon” would play out over a full day in 20,000-seat venues. “Grief” simply asks for 75 minutes in a black box.
Campbell is not concerned with niceties or palatable jokes. His script acknowledges its brazenness, but only after taking combative jabs at religion, grief books, group counseling and other restorative practices friends dare suggest. He dedicates entire passages to the messy parts of the healing process: how to explain to friends the differences between not wanting to live and being suicidal; how to empathize with other bereaved parents who still have living children; at what point during mourning is morning sex acceptable.
I could never answer Campbell’s questions. I’ve never had a child, let alone lost two. But I have said eternal goodbyes. “Grief” opened on what would have been my grandmother Adina’s birthday, April 2. She turned 84 on that day in 2010, and died the next. I imagine that Campbell — adamant that no grief compares with that of losing all your children — might roll his eyes at that anecdote, but including her is the same act of remembrance he spent his unforgettable performance showing me how to do.
Grief
Through April 16 at Theater Row, Manhattan; griefaonemanshitshow.com. Running time: 1 hour 15 minutes.
This review is supported by Critical Minded, an initiative to invest in the work of cultural critics from historically underrepresented backgrounds.
Source: Theater - nytimes.com
