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The situation that's uniting them is simple, if unsettling, enough: A 21-year-old pizza-delivery man bearing firearms broke into a high school and shot up a group of kids and a teacher in the library. He was guided to where a cluster of them could be found, in the A-V closet, by a young girl he shot immediately afterward, something that's corroborated by two of the surviving teens. Who told the gunman this, however, is another matter. Caitlin Gabriel (Chloë Grace Moretz) is the one most commonly accused, as she was identified by classmate Ryan Mayes (Daryl Sabara) as having done so right before she was shot. Caitlin, however, remembers things differently: She's sure that it was Joy Gabriel, a religious girl she heard praying immediately before, and who died seconds later. Needless to say, that revelation—if, indeed, that's what it is, doesn't go over well with the girl's mother, Dawn (Lili Taylor), or pretty much anyone else. This, not the tragedy of school shootings, is what The Library is about, and why it works. Burns eschews monochromatic moralizing in favor of a far more nuanced and involving look at how we create our own worst aftermaths. Better yet, he does this by injecting no traditional "villains" into his story, even though it's so deeply concerned with the physical, emotional, and psychological agony Caitlin must endure during her recovery. Each person we meet is guided by a definite, defining truth, which we're quickly admonished is not the same thing as a measurable and objective reality. Is Caitlin blaming Joy strictly the deflect guilt away from herself? Is Dawn a cunning opportunist, who's willing to make money off of her loss, or is she as genuinely spiritual and taken with Caitlin's troubles as she seems to be? When Caitlin's parents, Nolan and Elizabeth (Michael O'Keefe and Jennifer Westfeldt), start playing fast and loose with their backgrounds, is it to protect Caitlin or themselves and their messy separation from scrutiny they could not withstand? That we eventually learn ironclad answers to these questions is as close as The Library has to a structural flaw; though his play is intent on proving that some things simply can't be known, Burns leaves no mystery unrevealed at the end of the 90-minute evening. But his writing is so compelling, with a plot that develops slowly but believably as it undulates through the many conflicting possibilities that surround it, that ultimately this doesn't matter much. Burns has created a haunting, beautiful play that speaks directly to our innermost instincts and fears, and never lets you out of its grasp. Neither does Soderbergh. Though he's best known as a film director (he won an Academy Award for Traffic in 2000, and has helmed, among many others, Erin Brockovich and the new Ocean's Eleven trilogy), he's no less intense when he applies his talents to the stage. He uses the mirror-box set (by Riccardo Hernandez) to highlight the reflection that's so crucial, and emphasize everyone's isolation. Many scenes are set amid pools of darkness with only spotlights (the lighting design is by David Lander) picking out the appropriate people; throughout, we see how true connection is difficult, and even when two souls are on the same page they're rarely able to interact directly. If Soderbergh makes a few miscalculations as far as the mechanics of the theatre—the amplification is grossly overdone, giving every all the voices a tinny and distant sound, and extreme backlighting sometimes creates puncturing stage pictures at the expense of our being able to see who's speaking—his work is by and large a collection of arresting choices that ideally suit the piece. And he's cast the show with performers who do as well. Everyone, without exception, is superb. O'Keefe and Westfeldt masterfully blend caring and self-interest as Caitlin's parents, and show over time how the pair is all but withering beneath the light of public attention. Taylor is incredibly focused and pinpoint-precise of language, as if to prove that Dawn's dedication to perfection (and thus God) is all that's holding her together; her command of the woman's grief is magnetic. Sabara adopts just enough gawky innocence to be believable as the young Ryan, and looks (and sounds) convincingly shell-shocked by everyone around him; tasked with one of the most important scenes in the show (opposite a coolly effective Tamara Tunie as the no-nonsense detective assigned to the case) he elicits tear-jerking redemption from the parched surroundings. Moretz may be only 17 years old, she more than holds her own against her esteemed costars. Though she's been terrific in films, including the Kick-Ass franchise, she's even better here, effortlessly fusing the confusion of adolescence with the despondency of guilt. As Caitlin's fortunes ebb and flow, you can see Moretz all but crumble, becoming more and more a wisp of a person until she's finally able to confront the demons surrounding her. You see exactly what you need to from her: a little girl burdened with adulthood well before her time, and feeling the full brunt of everything that implies to her. Watching Moretz, you won't forget that facts are more important to Caitlin than anyone, or that they're also what are slowly eroding her to nothing. If that transformation isn't any more pleasant than the other events The Library documents, both it and the play are powerful reminders of how the boundaries between fact and truth affect us all. Not acknowledging how the two are different can imprison us within our own hearts, minds, and souls. But knowing the difference, and working to further it for ourselves and the others in our lives, can set us free.
The Library
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