The Toronto Theatre Review: Lucy Kirkwood’s The Welkin
By Ross
With the sounds of crickets and creaks, a woman, Sally Poppy, moves steadfast in the dark, drawing us fully into The Welkin at the Soulpepper Theatre Company in a stellar co-production with Crow’s Theatre and The Howland Company. The woman has only been gone four months, we are told, when her angry husband finds her there, going through things, searching in earnest for something. To this wild woman, it felt like she’d been gone for years upon years, but she has returned, for a quick moment, claiming a desire to witness the rare Halley’s Comet that will be seen in the sky very soon. Yet, when pushed, it becomes clear that her return is most likely for a different, more complicated, and disturbing want. Standing anxiously inside the darkness of what used to be her home, waiting in anticipation for what will come, the play, ferociously well-written by Lucy Kirkwood (The Children), instills a crackling sense of ever-heightening discomfort and anxiety, and we are there for it, held firm, almost as if we ourselves have been locked in.
Something terrible has happened that night. That is bloody clear, once some candlelight illuminates the room, and we can all see the irrefutable evidence. As expertly delivered, we feel the tension in that dark interaction brought forth by the light of that one candle. We hear it somewhere in the voice of the desperate woman who has returned home to her perplexed and angry husband, played compellingly by Cameron Laurie (Crow’s Prodigal). He wants to know where his wife has been, but she, Sally Poppy, the cornerstone of this play, played meticulously wild and magnificent by Bahia Watson (Crow’s The Seagull), doesn’t really want to engage. She has something else on her mind, and on her body. And in that red-soaked personage, we realize, for her, everything has changed, but also, as she tells us, all has stayed the same, unfortunately for her, “just dirtier.” That statement, delivered true, is a wildly appropriate metaphor of all things female, then and now, and we can’t help but lean in even as we are overpowered by the “thump thump thump” of all these women’s work and “civic duty.”
In this very specific version of 18th-century England, unveiled in this compelling production, a panel of women has convened to determine the fate of Sally Poppy. She has been accused and found guilty of a brutal murder alongside the man she ran away with. But this gaggle of everyday women, who have been persuaded to leave their housework behind, has been called specifically because Sally, in court, claims to be with child, and if that’s true, and these women are the ones to say ‘yay’ or ‘nay’, she won’t be executed, but rather, transported away to America. What’s at stake is intense and engaging, and in its sharply defined structure, the production unpacks layers upon layers of standardized misogyny and gender inequality. And inside that honourable, hilarious, and fascinating unwrapping, The Welkin case expertly dissects triggers and the intense layers of century-old problems that persist to this very day with clarity and focus.
The Welkin is unique and complex, in a manner that will definitely be the talk of town, both theirs and ours. As directed with exciting pounding energy by Weyni Mengesha (Soulpepper’s A Streetcar Named Desire), the play has us hooked in, curious, and enticed within seconds. And with the next revealed framework being a churning plunge pleasure, headed by a fantastically engaging Mayko Nguyen (Nightwood’s Beautiful Man) as a mother and midwife named Elizabeth Luke, a refocusing has begun. This woman’s well-regarded commodity of communal respect and honour is being summoned by Mr. Coombes, played stoic and well by Craig Lauzon (Soulpepper/Native Earth’s Where The Blood Mixes). He has been asked to bring her into town, away from her butter making, to fill out a forum of women, a Welkin, to determine if the previously seen Sally, who has been charged with a murderously horrible crime, can or should be hanged for her role in the murdering and dismembering of Ann Wax, the young daughter of a well-to-do family.
She has been found guilty, quickly and without much due process, after being apprehended and charged as an accomplice to an unseen Scottish vagabond named Thomas McKay, who was already hanged that very morning for the gruesome crime. Sally would also have been hanged if it weren’t for the claim she made in the courtroom that she is pregnant. “She claims the belly,” Elizabeth is told, and if it is indeed true, her neck will be saved, and she will be transported away, rather than getting the same punishment as her so-called accomplice.
Cleverly entwined in that initial fascinating exchange that takes place between the married Mr., sent to fetch Elizabeth Luke, is a telling undercurrent that speaks across generations. Like the somewhat deranged Sally and many of the other women in The Welkin, they all speak about the annoying interruption of her tedious housework as being the cruel act delivered, even though they all also describe it as both boring and difficult, yet also required. But Elizabeth allows herself to be swung into service, for a reason that is obvious and honourable. She joins a powerful parade of women, played with majestic purpose by a crew of fantastically detailed actors who kiss the book and gather. Each is engaged in playing their part in the quorum, even though they weren’t, as pointed out by Elizabeth, brought forth of their own accord or to actually help the charged woman after her speedy trial and verdict. “I know she has been tried in a cold room by cold men on the word of a cold husband, with no one to speak for her and a mob outside the window.” And it becomes crystal clear that this play has much to say about this unjust framework and the unfair way the world is run.
Deep inside the courageous and complex text, filled to overflowing with metaphors and symbols, the play expertly dives into the complexities with a fantastic sense of purpose, fuelled by exacting portrayals, and delivered by a most talented cast, led by a ferociously good Nguyen. Set in 18th-century England, but given a modern sweeping energy of engagement and actualization, this mix of mystery and misogyny finds its forum closed off in the room with a silent man to watch over them. The setting, designed strongly by Julie Fox (Stratford’s R+J) with sharply defined costuming by Michelle Tracey (Buddies’ Roberto Zucco), compelling lighting by Bonnie Beecher (Coal Mine’s People, Places and Things), and a crisp sound design by Thomas Ryder Payne (Tarragon’s Redbone Coonhound), has its way with us, digging us in and encapsulating all. And there is no getting out until all are in agreement.
Nguyen is astonishingly good at staying strongly structured and determined, as well as just one of a pack delivering forth dialogue that floats about in pre-modern feminist language against the rot of misogyny. There’s no attempt to establish this in an authentic time period, both vocally and attitudinally, creating a landscape that bridges and blends the gaps between the very specific setting and the modernist soapbox stumping that our hero stands upon. Once the women find themselves locked in with the cuffed Sally, with a silent male observer inside and an angry mob outside, the jury of women must find their way to a unanimous vote. Is she with child, or not and only claiming the quickening to avoid a hanging? “Even if she is lying, I do not blame her,” states Elizabeth, “I would lie too. When a woman is being buried alive, she will reach for even the grubbiest tool to dig herself out again.”
It’s a compelling act of internal and intuitive investigation, with the midwife Elizabeth, seemingly the expert in the crowd, not being persuasive enough against the suspicious others who believe she should be hanged so they can get back to their chores. They search for signs to speed things up, palpating Sally’s breasts for milk in hopes this would sway the group, but the dirt of the room is stronger than the result. Personalities are unwound and unpacked, as alliances shift and reform for differing reasons. But it’s in the interwoven dialogue of women, bantering about their own pregnancies and bodily functions, that truly brings this fever to fruition.
This production thrives on its ensemble thanks to the compelling work of the cast of women (and a few good men), namely: Fiona Highet (Buddies’ Roberto Zucco) as Charlotte Cary; Courtney Ch’ng Lancaster (Soulpepper’s Of Human Bondage) as Emma Jenkins; Annie Luján (Soulpepper’s King Lear) as Hannah Rusted; Hallie Seline (Howland’s Heroes of the Fourth Turning) as Helen Ludlow; Natasha Mumba (Factory’s acts of faith) as Ann Lavender; Nadine Bhabha (Tarragon’s Girls Like That) as Kitty Givens; Ghazal Azarbad (Soulpepper/Segal Centre’s English) as Peg Carter; Olunike Adeliyi (Sterling’s Macbeth) as Judith Brewer; Brefny Caribou (Theatre Rusticle’s The Tempest) as Mary Middleton; Raquel Duffy (Coal Mine’s Appropriate) as Sarah Hollis, and Kyra Harper (Coal Mine’s Infinite Life) as Sarah Smith; giving such detailed performances that we can’t look away for a second. They pull us into their lives and flip us around their solidly formulated vantage points with focused ease. Adeliyi’s Judith is a standout, but it truly is their combined individualized performances that elevate the whole, unleashing numerous narratives that sometimes overwhelm, but mostly embellish the thesis put forth by Kirkwood.
The piece is not exactly a murder mystery, even though the act remains somewhat mysterious, until Watson’s Sally unleashes the story of her staring into the sky, waiting and wishing for a dream conjuring. It’s an impeccable-paced unwrapping that balances mysticism in the same way the production layers centuries past and future to make a point about the here and now. It disturbingly becomes something more, playing with the idea that a gaggle of women will ultimately give power to a male doctor, also portrayed by Laurie, who arrives at the door over the midwife that stands with them in the room. Kirkwood finds compelling, complex arguments and narratives within the women, folding in their own attitudes towards themselves and life as a woman in the 18th century. Unpacking gender inequality and laws that still require debate to this very day, thanks to a corrupted court, both then and our Supreme Court now.
Lucy Kirkwood’s The Welkin turns an 18th-century jury room into a fierce battleground of misogyny, motherhood, and moral reckoning. The title, The Welkin, is in reference to the sky, ancient and invigorating in its formulation, shooting forth many discussions about the rarely seen Halley’s Comet passing by. The subtlety of that metaphor is fascinating, but not as clear and defined as the purposefulness of the many reveals that address hierarchy, social status, and powerful maternal allegiances that live within, not to mention the devilishly compelling story of childbirth that emerges through the folk horror of the mute Mary (Caribou). All are metaphorically and meticulously compelling, delivered more strongly and shockingly than a fiery crow’s less-impactful chimney invasion. Each of these actors could be singled out for a heartbreaking or invigorating moment of praise, but it’s in their combative unity and complexity, as well as their direction, that gives The Welkin its completely wild bit of wonderment and steady thumping engagement.
In its final, harrowing moments, The Welkin thumps the endless rhythm of women’s labour into a single, unthinkable act of tightened respect: Elizabeth’s hands — hands that have delivered babies, kneaded bread, churned butter—become the very instruments of release. It is a dark act of kindness, a mercy that spares Poppy, even as it stains Elizabeth’s own soul. In that gesture, we feel the centuries of unseen toil, of men causing harm, and of women cleaning and vacuuming up the blood and dirt after them, bound to each other by duty and survival. Kirkwood and Mengesha end with a comet’s imaginary journey, and with the laboured breath of housework transfigured into an act of desperate grace — a domestic duty rendered cosmic, and unforgettable.
