Fall On Your Knees: a slavishly faithful adaptation of a beloved novel
28 Jan 2023

by Drew Rowsome - Photos by Dahlia Katz 

Fall On Your Knees is a theatrical event. Running over two nights for three hours each night with a huge cast, and a beloved classic Canadian novel by beloved Anne-Marie MacDonald as the source material. However more attention was paid to this being an event and the theatricality takes a back seat to slavishly reproducing the novel. Fall On Your Knees tentatively finds its footing during the last third of the first night (Part 1: The Family Tree) and gathers momentum on the second evening (Part 2: The Diary) but it never manages to recover from the endurance test that is the first act, clocking in at two hours. The premise of the first act is that we are being told a story and whatever cast are not part of the vignettes, sit on chairs ringed around the back of the stage and move around props during lethargic scene changes. It takes a village.

Having read the book many years ago, I was able to enjoy having my memory triggered. And there were a handful of stunning images, soldiers moving a piano summed up the First World War in a gloriously horrific tableau. But mostly there is a lot of exposition delivered in short scenes of dialogue punctuated by domestic violence which, for the gasps elicited from the audience, were a different kind of trigger for many. There is a real sense of deliberateness, of reverence for the source material, that unfortunately sucks all the energy out of the proceedings. It reminds one of one of those dreary CBC mini-series or an extremely detailed Wikipedia page. Fortunately Deborah Hay (Caroline, or Change, Lear, London Road) didn't get the memo and she explodes onto the stage with comic, and ultimately tragic, vitality. She is a delight and carries the first evening to a satisfying finale. The old cliché of a performer tucking a show under her arm and strolling away with it comes to mind.

The first act of the second evening wisely focusses on Hay's character and more theatrical elements are added to great effect. Inexplicably, what follows falls flat. Despite dynamic subject matter—blues/jazz of the salacious variety! lesbians! opera divas! a white drug-addicted hooker in Harlem! incest!—and the cast suddenly working their butts off, it all limps to a confusing conclusion that skimps on any catharsis. It seems to say that all transgressions are forgivable when it is family, yet we have just spent six hours while secrets are slowly revealed and people suffer because of those transgressions. It might be realistic but it isn't dramatically satisfying. Like real life, there is also confusion about sexuality and race. Janelle Cooper and Tony Ofori (Copy That, Bunny) sparkle but are relegated to roles that are secondary to the three sisters, existing just to make a point. Amaka Umeh (Moby, Towards Youth, The Wolves, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Romeo and Juliet, James and the Giant Peach, This is for You, Anna, Sister Act, Jesus Christ Superstar) has an extraordinary character arc that she makes the most of but it is alas, a footnote instead of a full plotline. Though she does wears a fedora with rakish aplomb, even in the foreshadowing shadowy appearances.

There fun moments from Diane Flacks (The Waiting Room, Freda and Jem's Best of the Week) as an acerbic nun and a nosy neighbour. Jenny L Wright cuts loose as the Harlem hooker, unrecognizable from her major dutiful daughter role. The second evening spends much time exploring the diaries of Kathleen Piper whose aspirations of singing at the Metropolitan Opera sets several subplots and themes into motion. Samantha Hill sings well and seethes with passion, but is also saddled with being the narrator and some more awkward scene changes. Writer/co-creator Hannah Moscovitch (Post-Democracy, Sexual Misconduct of the Middle Classes, Old Stock, What a Young Wife Ought to Know, Bunny) slices the dialogue to a minimum, with many of the words spoken carrying multiple meanings. She and director/co-creator Alisa Palmer attempt many subtle visual plot progressions or clues and some work wonderfully, some are head-scratching. Never has the ascent into lesbianism been presented so awkwardly, though the metaphor of clothing, particularly women's clothing, as stricture rings through loud and clear.

The second evening also benefits from music. Lots of music, from Celtic to jazz/blues to opera. Opening with Hay rocking a Liza haircut and an accordion, featuring sultry interludes by Cooper and Ofori, and tasty comedy with Antoine Yared (Lear) as a snippy and coded vocal teacher. It makes one wonder if this would have worked better as an actual musical. Characters would have been allowed to sing their passions. And their repressed passions. But that might have been inauthentic to the novel and so we are presented a lengthy detailed drama with musical inserts that interrupt, with gratitude, the proceedings, but don't drive the narrative forward. That is exempting Cooper's rendition of "Wild Women Don't Get the Blues," a specific and pointed commentary. There are subtle theatrical flourishes—chairs hanging from the ceiling, curtains as veils, pianos as metaphors for just about everything—but there are also symbols that bubble underneath. However I still fail to understand the annoying glass bowls that underscore much of the first act as if a horror film Theremin wandered in. As the show tours, it is playing many Canadian cities as it is a co-production of several theatres besides Canadian Stage, it may gain energy and become an event worthy of investing six-plus hours. And Deborah Hay deserves a medal.