A Christmas Carol: haunted by the Christmas spirit(s)
16 Dec 2018

by Drew Rowsome - Production photos by Graham Isador

I'm going to consider The Three Ships Collective/Soup Can Theatre production of A Christmas Carol as the second ghost. As a general rule of thumb, I detest manipulative Christmas seasonal plays/films/television specials, loathe Christmas music, and while I delight in all the glitter and lights, it's best when they move past red and green, Santas and snowmen. Compulsory gift giving is cruel commercialism, turkey is an over-rated protein, and did I mention the pain to the ears of 99.9 percent of Christmas music? I do not spend December anticipating the "holiday season," I'm still mourning the passing of Halloween.

But each year there are several innovative or intriguing productions that promise to rebalance my tinsel chakra by infusing me with that elusive elixir, the Christmas spirit. This A Christmas Carol's gimmick is that it takes place in the historic Campbell House, a spooky monster home dating from 1822 that perches forbodingly at the corner of Queen and University. Placing a Dickens tale in a contemporaneous structure creates instant atmosphere and a smidgen of verisimilitude, but doesn't allow for the lighting or effects that would enhance the supernatural aspects of the spirits. However the cast, crew and director Sarah Thorpe do manage to come up with a few surprises, which I will NOT spoiler, that were dependent on the house's resources and are quite delightful.

Climbing a staircase to join a party that can be heard faintly from above, instantly shifts the experience into another world, as much akin to a theme park ride as a theatrical production. When the same staircase is perspectived from below to quite different effect, form and function meld seamlessly. And for those of us who grow restless seated for 90 minutes, the trouping about, standing, and staircases are a welcome treat. However the truly unique feature of this A Christmas Carol is the taut and propulsive text by Justin Haigh (The Session). Pared down to 75 minutes, running longer on opening night as some struggled with all the stairs, not a word or gesture is wasted.

Items and ideas mentioned in passing recur, or in one nice flourish provide a final twist, as precisely woven as the threads in the carpets underfoot. Even the actors playing multiple roles have a reasoning behind the layering, a thematic resonance, not just a cost cutting necessity. The splendid Tiffany Martin (Harlem Duet) playing the fiance, the Ghost of Christmases Yet to Come, and the nephew's wife, not only solves the problem of casting three roles, but also sets up a counter narrative that is emotionally devastating. When the cast numbers 14 and the audience 28, this production is already extravagant in ways that a Scrooge would not approve of.

Haigh also toys with modern paradigms by teasing ideas that are currently verboten only to use Victorian idioms to point out our own foibles. It is not only disorienting and very, very funny, it packs a punch. Scrooge's encounter with the hoop-skirted Berryman daughter teases #MeToo before providing a comic release, a bawdy party song covers everything from promiscuity to bestiality, and the relationship between Scrooge and Marley has facets that could, with a bit of subtext elevated, cast the entire play and story in a new light as a coming out story.

Guiding the audience from scene to scene is Christopher Fowler as the ghost of Jacob Marley. Relishing every syllable of the script that at least sounds plausibly Dickensian, and with a dominatrix's - maybe it's the chains - firm approach to those who break the rules, he has merely to flutter his fingers to beckon the audience forward, point emphatically to move all into position, and raise his eyebrows to command silence. It is a tongue in cheek and terrifying performance. The other characters speed by but still manage to make an impression. Jim Armstrong is a boisterous Fezziwig, while Alex Dallas registers as both his big-hearted wife and even more so as the tart-tongued and indomitable Mrs Dilber.

Already mentioned is Tiffany Martin's subtly executed revelation of the pagan roots of Christmas, journeying from playfully seductive spring to burning hot spurned summer lover, to the dead chill of winter and back to the blossoming of life and hope. The imposing Christopher Lucas is a riotous Ghost of Christmas Present and the "Lad" who embodies that spirit. William Matthews is a touching Bob Cratchit and Makenna Beatty sidesteps the treacle as Tiny Tim and Scrooge as a child. The violin work of Amy Marie Wallace does not prepare for an eerie turned ethereal entrance as the Ghost of Christmas Past.

But of course A Christmas Carol's effect rests on the shoulders of Ebenezer Scrooge's transformation. Thomas Gough (The Crucible, Bent, Donors) faces the difficult challenge of a huge character arc while having to remain basically passive throughout the transformation. For nary a second, that I saw, did the wheels stop turning. He watches his younger self (portrayed by Mike Hogan) and somewhere deep within his eyes manages to project a slow melting turning into a tsunami of regret. It is still somewhat jarring when the curmudgeon becomes a Christmas elf on steroids, but it is done with such sincere joy at a second chance, that it is believable. The man who cannot bear to be touched, who buries himself in books and ledgers to avoid physical and emotional contact, finally embraces his nephew in an enveloping hug and all is explained in an instant.

This A Christmas Carol is very charming. When Scrooge joins the Cratchits at their humble table in the bowels of the Campbell House, even I had a tear in my eye. I was all set to race out and splurge on candy canes when, mercifully, the cast launched into a Christmas-themed sing-a-long that, at one verse too long, brought me back to my senses. Infected with the kiss of the Christmas spirit, I stepped out into the crisp night air and, as if on cue, a light snow began to fall.  I am even contemplating risking a third ghost by attending one of the innumerable Christmas cabarets or concerts currently haunting the stages of our fair city.

Alas, this review has a Scrooge-like coda. The complete run of A Christmas Carol is sold out. So unless you are able to beg, borrow or, risking Santa's naughty list with Grinch-like elan, steal a ticket, this particular infusion of Christmas spirit will remain elusive. Bah Humbug.