The Wolves

Or: Emerald Field, Black Mirror

The women of the Wolves are far from being paragons. They can be cruel, ignorant, apt to fall into long worn slots: the Clown, the Sensitive Religious type, the Kitty Bennett, the Snoot, the Whimsical, the Alpha, the Autolycan, and the Quiet One. But as we get to see this high school indoor soccer team warm up, flare up, bond and break take their victories and defeats and their tragedies, playwright Sarah DeLappe shows that each girl is somebody’s baby, or could have a glorious future, or struggles under a private cross. In essence, they are like any girl, anywhere, full of possibilities, and greater than anything when they come together as a team.

DeLappe’s prowess lies in her ability to spin possibilities. The Wolves have been playing together so long and have formed so many bonds we, and new player #46 (Keegan Keith), find there’s information that floats just beyond reach. DeLappe not only spins hyper-realistic dialog and fits plot pieces so finely together but she also creates a sense of mystery and, like a magician, allow space for her audience to ponder silently what the story unspoken is, building up our own most likely narratives, only to subvert them with an elegant prestige.

In the production itself, tonight at least, the hyper-realism is off to a rocky start. What should flow effortlessly, fizz’s and spurts, halting the story, killing the jokes, and corralling each artist in her character traits rather than her character. Thankfully director Leslie Durham’s sense of space and DeLappe’s knowledge of what works well on stage creates poignant stage pictures: flashing tableaux behind the fields, smudged barriers, highlighting an elegant sentence of body language, and the excitement of sport in the theater. And when the consequences rise, the dialog finds its lock, snapping around the circle at just the right speed, sped along by helpings of those universal conductors good drama, anger and suffering.


Some fine performances include Keith’s 46, the stranger in the group dynamic, whose lake-like expression, exquisite awkwardness, ball-handling skills make her a fascinating study, as she nails the disingenuous bringer of glory and misfortune her playwright has crafted. Marley Snow-King (leading contender for Mx. Nifty-Name 2018) excels as the exuberant #13 perpetually joking, joshing, and goat getting but still showing off a measure of uncertainty, the naked need to please or provoke, and an honest tear as well. And Noel Nelson as the goalie, #00 does a fantastic job on practically no lines at all but keeps the burning candle of presence close to her throughout the show while others struggle to light it in stiff winds. It glows in her, makes her a touchstone of every scene, alive and listening, and blisters us when we are treated to a solo of anguish.

By the end, the blockages' and we the audience have been lead on a merry and exhaustive chase, trying to stay ahead of DeLappe’s plot and always being put back into place. The Wolves soar out over us, then one of the engines stutters and lists (no failing of the cast or direction here) before leveling off again, bearing it’s eight heroines to parts unknown but hopefully brighter.