Bring your hankies with you, along with your heart. "Tuesdays With Moorie," currently running at Seattle Repertory Theatre, is a true tearjerker.
Based on the 1997 bestselling memoir by syndicated sportswriter Mitch Albom, the theatrical adaptation by Albom and Jeffrey Hatcher shares the same heartfelt real-life story of Albom's relationship with his college mentor, Morrie Schwartz.
Beautifully directed by Seattle Rep's artistic director David Esbjornson, the 90-minute, two-character play juxtaposes Albom's first-person narratives with vignettes of his various visits to Morrie.
If you've read the book, you know the story. When Albom graduated from Brandeis University, he said his goodbyes to his favorite professor, Schwartz. And promised to keep in touch.
But he didn't. It would be 16 years before he reunited with his mentor. Quite by chance, Mitch saw his beloved sociology prof being interviewed by Ted Koppel on "Nightline." Morrie was talking about what it was like to die from ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis), a degenerative condition of the nervous system, better known as Lou Gehrig's disease.
Soon after, Mitch called Morrie and flew to Boston. It was Tuesday, and what started as a simple visit with an old friend turned into a weekly pilgrimage and a final class in the meaning of life, love - and death.
At a certain point in our lives, we all think about death. How we want to die, how much time we have left. But this work is as much or more about how to live your life as it is about how it feels to die. Morrie gives us much to ponder. The play overflows with philosophical sound bites. Some we've heard before, but Morrie's wisdom spills out with humor and poignancy. We grow to love him as Mitch does.
Alvin Epstein inhabits the character of Morrie with endearing perfection. Half sprite, half sage, he dances with abandon, he proses eloquently, he gasps for breath, he weeps openly. There are moments of humor, which Epstein delivers with absolute glee, then quickly switches his tone from sassy mischief to heart-wrenching vulnerability. When Morrie talks about his mother's death. Or when he wistfully says, "extra credit," hoping Mitch will hug him once more before he leaves.
As Mitch, Lorenzo Pisoni gives a thoughtful and believable performance, enhancing the onstage rapport between him and Epstein. As Mitch watches Morrie lose his ability to move, he wrestles with his own feelings about dying. The sensitive Pisoni guides us through Mitch's repressed guilt about his Uncle Mike, who encouraged Mitch's love of jazz and talent as a pianist. But when Mike died of pancreatic cancer before Mitch could express his love, Mitch punished himself by giving up his music completely.
Although Morrie's body deteriorates, his spirit remains undaunted. He teaches Mitch what is important in life, exposing its trivialities in a gentle and often amusing, almost Socratic style. "Once you learn how to die," he advises, "you learn how to live." In fact, Morrie even organized his own "living" funeral - he wanted to hear what people would say about him.
The action unfolds on Robert Brill's simply designed set. Curved wooden backdrops join the wooden floor in a seamless bond. A comfortable chair and nearby walker are eventually replaced with a hospital bed. Jane Cox's lighting creates an intimacy, while Christopher T. Pew's soundtrack includes a lovely rendition of the 1930s standard, "The Very Thought of You," played by jazz pianist Rob Schwemmer.
Many of us have experienced that special teacher, the one who infused us with confidence and opened our minds to broader perspective. And if not an instructor, others have touched our lives and shaped our philosophies. Some of these people are no longer with us physically. Yet, these departed ones still speak to our hearts and souls. So we go on, those of us still walking this earth, our gratitude tacitly expressed by the way we live our lives from that moment on.
There will be some audience members who prefer the book to the play, and vice versa. But let us hope the outcome remains the same - hope there is a part of Morrie in all of us. Still wanting to dance to the music of life. Still hoping for one more sweet moment of extra credit. Much like the leaves of autumn whose colors burn brightest just before they fall.
Though it speaks to the student/teacher relationship, the play may also evoke memories of last moments with a loved one. I am reminded of the final months of my mother's life. As she was dying of cancer, I wanted her to know how much I loved her. But in our family, we seldom, if ever, spoke "the words." I was determined to break that pattern, so at the end of every phone call and visit, I would say, "I love you, mommy." To which she would always reply, "The feeling is mutual."
There are those who speak of "Tuesdays with Morrie" as a "little" play. And perhaps it is, when compared to the works of Shakespeare and O'Neill. Yet there is bigness about this docudrama that transcends the onstage action.
So when Morrie tells Mitch the most important thing in life is love, my heart quickly responds, dancing across the universe with these words: The feeling is mutual, Morrie, the feeling is mutual.
Starla Smith is a Queen Anne resident. Before moving to Seattle from New York, Smith was a Broadway journalist and Tony voter.[[In-content Ad]]
