The Caretaker

Reviewed by Holly Bartges

One stares obliviously into a universe no one else can enter.

Jim Hunt and Warren Sherrill in Paragon Theatre Company’s production of The Caretaker. Photo by Steven R Nickerson

One chatters incessantly punctuated with aggressive violent exclamation marks underscored by threatening body language.

And one just is, at least for a moment. Grateful for a roof over his head, grateful for a bed to sleep in, dressed in despair with dirty tattered clothing.

In the same room at the same time living in their individual worlds unable to connect with each other, much less themselves.

The hodge podge room is a junk dealers dream crammed with objects that might be valuable to someone somewhere if only a connection could be made with the right needful person. Designed by David Lafont, the set teases the audience playing games before the production begins identifying obvious and hidden objects. “Bed? What do you mean there is a second bed? Oh, yeah.”

There’s always a place for junk in this room, but no place for connection of any kind. The toaster doesn’t work. The gas stove isn’t connected and neither is the three characters living within the bounds of Harold Pinter’s 1960 play The Caretaker.

Directed with the finesse of Terry Dodd, The Caretaker grabs the breath for Paragon Theatre Company at the Phoenix Theatre and refuses to let go. Pinter has a way of doing that. Paragon doesn’t know how to provide anything but highhanded quality theatre, and this production is no exception.

With a double-edged sword masquerading as the written word, Pinter digs under the skin hoping to find the button highlighting human consciousness exploring homelessness, mental illness, dreams and the lack of, possessiveness, motivation, belonging, and isolation within a society proclaiming human dignity a birthright.

Pinter provides a glimpse into a world most theatergoers never see and don’t want any part of, and if they do certainly don’t want to admit it.

Dodd takes the poignant words off the page blowing life into the junk filled room, asking the actors to stretch their artistic muscles to reach into an unfamiliar world. The result: awesomely breathtaking.

omewhere in the mix Jim Hunt, Warren Sherrill and Jarrod Hollbrook give indelible life to the three characters. These are not three people one would invite out for a power lunch, much less into your home for dinner, but they are three characters so well-defined they will be difficult to forget.

No one will ever be able to forget the last glimpse of the tattered defeated Davies (Hunt) walking out the door for the last time. With no place to go, one can only surmise he could become a statistic in the morning paper. Without the skill of being able to endear himself to anyone, The transient Davies, who goes by the name of Jenkins, slides awkwardly from gratitude for a roof over his head and a bed to complaining about an unplugged gas stove that might attack him unannounced in the middle of the night, to not being able to fix a cup of tea, to not having a decent pair of shoes, to being caught between two brothers living in separate worlds.

Hunt may knock off your socks with his lifetime performance, although you might not get them back. Davies will undoubtedly keep them. He needs them. Grotesque to the outside world, desperate to the inside, Davies tells slow-minded Aston (Sherrill) his name is Bernard Jenkins. His real name is Mac Davies. He needs to travel to nearby Sidcup to claim papers proving his real identity enabling him a far-fetched idea to begin his life again. Without a decent pair of shoes he can’t get to Sidcup. The chances of that ever happening remain a remote pretentious dream.

Sherrill’s kind hearted slow thinking Aston rescues Davies from an altercation, bringing him back to his junk filled room in a house owned by his brother. Aston’s soliloquy on what happened to him and why as he stares into a space fortunately none of us will go, tears the heart into pieces. His only crime was talking too much while a café society took it upon itself to silence him. He knows his junk is worth something. The chances of him ever doing anything about it flirts with never. He’s good with his hands and plans on building a shed in back of the house. He can do it. He knows he can, but somehow will never get around to it. Aston’s vacant stare defies a mind that still works. He knows more, understands more, than he can communicate. His silence drives Davies to distraction.

Tantalizing, confusing, embroiled in hostile aggression, Mick barrels into the apartment to find Davies attacking him with unmitigated verbal accusations. Mick owns the dilapidated house. Having carefully thought through how it could be upgraded, “I could turn this place into a penthouse. For instance this room. This room could have been the kitchen. Right size, nice window, sun comes in. I’d have, I’d have teal-blue, copper and parchment linoleum squares. I’d have those colours re-echoed in the walls. I’d offset the kitchen units with charcoal-gray worktops. Plenty of room for cupboards for the crockery. We’d have a small wall cupboard, a large wall cupboard, a corner wall cupboard with revolving shelves. You shouldn’t be short of cupboards. You could put the dining room across the landing, see? Yes. Venetian blinds on the window, cork floor, cork tiles. You could have an off-white pile linen rug, a table in… in afromosia teak veneer, sideboard with matte black drawers, armchairs in oatmeal tweed, a beech frame settee with a woven sea-grass seat… it wouldn’t be a flat it’d be a palace.” His detailed intellect contradicts his emotional imbalance.

Mick hungers to live in luxury, with a hunger no grocery store products can feed.

This man has done his homework, but that’s as far as the upgrading will go.

Holbrook steals the breath and won’t give it back until Davies walks out the door for the last time.

Sherrill turns the heart inside out with a mind numbing performance. Disappearing behind a blank stare, his piercing eyes dig a hole into the ozone layer.

Testosterone romps around the stage in a constant whirlwind of pride, demand, being right, fueled with power of still being able to say no. The pecking order commands attention even in a world of non-communication.

Caught between the two brothers, who both invite Davies to become the caretaker for the house, caught between expectations, caught between hope and despair, caught between yes and no, caught between longing for a cup of tea, demanding a clock, reaching for dignity that eludes him all for the want of a pair of decent shoes, Davies struggles, fights, demands pleads, begs, until the only option remaining is to walk away. Aston may be slow, his dreams may be an arm’s length away, but with stubborn determination he clings to the ability to say no.

The Caretaker has been honored as a landmark in 20th Century drama, placing ninth in the Royal National Theatre’s Survey of the 20th Century Most Significant Plays. What about the 21st Century? Unfortunately, the struggle for sustained human dignity remains untouched in many areas of our society, much less our world. The loss of identity spells out social exclusion building brick walls around life-giving dreams.

Because of its thought-provoking nagging issues outlined in bright primary colors shaded by muted tones, because of the overwhelming stunning performances by Hunt, Sherrill and Holbrook, because of Pinter’s razor sharp two edged pen, because Dodd’s incredible sensitive timed direction, because it is Paragon, The Caretaker needs to be on the absolute must see list. Miss it. You’ll regret it.