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Where Wallace distinguishes herself and her play is with the nature of these bonds. On the surface, Dembi (Ito Aghayere) and Adjua (Kristolyn Lloyd) would seem to be an average couple who've built a comfortable living on the docks of Bristol by the time we first meet them in 1791, and are longing to soon start a family. They're so in sync, and so committed to their "bad boy" and "good girl" images, that no one would suspect—indeed, no one would even have reason to suspect—that they're not just escaped slaves who have made good but are also, in fact, both women. Dembi hides her truth beneath a convincing masculine façade, but is haunted by what she wants but can't have. A ghost chases Adjua as well, but it's that of her sister, who drowned after being thrown overboard from a slave ship, and she's consumed with rage and desire for revenge against the captain who gave the order. So when they learn that the white man who's recently washed up in their midst, Cranston (Michael Izquierdo), has a connection to that ship, things, shall we say, become a bit stormy. Considering that Cranston has lost much of his memory, his role in what happened is left an open question for some time. His feelings for Adjua are more pronounced, and he's both determined and willing to take what he wants from her. This is an attitude that not only has major implications later, but reminds how blurry concepts of "right" and "wrong" become when the matter of treating people as property is accepted as a given—the closest The Liquid Plain gets to a single, declarative theme statement. We don't meet the third woman, Bristol (Lisagay Hamilton), until the second act, set in 1837, when she sets out to unravel the murky fates of Dembi and Adjua. She's been no more able than they to move beyond the circumstances of her own birth, which are tied to a ship and crew that were devoted to rescuing slaves, and parents who were not what she always believed they were. Before long, it becomes evident that true absolution—and forgiveness?—can come once Bristol gets what she wants and arrives where she's always been heading. Though it's quite dark, The Liquid Plain never wallows in unhappiness. Wallace injects some levity and poetry—the title derives from a Phillis Wheatley poem, but William Blake is commonly cited and shows up as a figment of one drunken reverie—to keep the action buoyant and the tone reminiscent of August Wilson's brand of accessible import. The fierce forthrightness of Dembi and Bristol further brands the overall work as one of action and hope, not merely making the best of the bad lot, and the scenes that focus most on how they use their unique skills to shift their worlds are by far the play's strongest. The connective tissue, alas, is much weaker. Certain subplots and large chunks of characters rely pretty strongly on coincidence for a story that's all about taking responsibility for yourself. The writing for most of the subsidiary men—dock scum Balthazar (Karl Miller), pilot Liverpool Joe (Johnny Ramey), two ancient men (Lance Roberts and Tuck Milligan) who briefly cross paths with Dembi—is sketchy and distractingly light, as though it was piped in from a Technicolor historical drama. And Wallace's efforts to fuse gritty reality with the gauziness of memory and imagination only occasionally catch fire, their heavy symbolism dampening the potential impact of realizing how thin the boundaries between the brain, heart, and spirit really are. Director Kwame Kwei-Armah's staging of many of these moments tends toward the scattered and confusing, which doesn't help, though his direction of the dock scenes shimmers with the proper rough-hewn emotional authenticity. Paul Tazewell's costumes and Thom Weaver's lights are spot on, as for the most part is Rocco Hernandez's imposing wooden dreamscape set, though it provides a too-cluttered backdrop for Alex Koch's mood-setting projections to truly hit home. The acting, however, is engrossing, at least from the leads, all of whom channel their characters' innate anger in different but compelling ways. Aghayere tempers hers with romance to create a cruelly complicated (and compelling) Dembi who's as naturally likely to rip something apart as grip it with all her might. The sense of hollowed-out anguish is palpable from Lloyd, who shows how Adjua's optimism is both her best feature and the trait most likely to undo her. In highlighting Cranston's many imperfections and contradictions, Izquierdo sculpts a dynamic portrayal of a man at war with himself. Though Hamilton is saddled with a difficult, apparently disconnected role, she makes a marvel of it, beautifully weaving together various threads of story and perspective to craft a critical, central character who embodies the lessons so important to The Liquid Plain. Bristol is a woman who's lived her life yoked to her past, and comes to realize that she possesses the qualities needed to establish a brighter future. Her journey from servitude to liberty is not easy and not without casualties, and Wallace could better define it in places. But it's a powerful, cathartic reminder that true freedom always starts in the soul and proceeds outward, transforming—and exalting—everything in its path.
The Liquid Plain
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