There are a lot of things that can keep us from being happy. I’ve grown to understand that most of those things are internal. We keep ourselves from being happy by gripping onto jobs, habits, relationships, and possessions that we hate. We fight against change, clinging to lifestyles that don’t suit us, in order to keep moving in the predictable flow of the day. In general, humans reject the idea of self-inflicted misery, possibly because it’s more than a little uncomfortable to realize you’ve had the power to be free and happy all along, and you weren’t. The current Parkland College Theatre production You Can’t Take it With You, directed by Joi Hoffsommer, examines this somewhat unpleasant idea with charm, humor, and plenty of heart.
The Sycamores are a creative family. They’re happy and productive, and they follow their dreams, no matter how bad they may be at them. Penny, the mother, writes. A lot and badly. Paul, the father, makes fireworks and tinkers around with erector sets. Martin Vanderhof, “Grandpa,” hasn’t paid income tax since it was invented, and he doesn’t do anything else he doesn’t like either. Penny and Paul have two daughters, Essie and Alice. Essie loves to dance, but she’s terrible. Her husband, Ed, plays xylophone and works a printing press, and he sells the candy Essie makes. Then there’s Rheba, the maid, and her boyfriend, Donald. Mr. De Pinna, a former ice man, joins the family by helping Mr. Sycamore make fireworks in the cellar. (There’s a Russian ballet teacher, an IRS representative, a drunk actress, a grand duchess, and some government agents, too, but let’s stick to the basics.) Everyone bustles around the house, blurring the lines of familial definition and what other people might call common decency. And they’re happy.
Alice Sycamore is the only one who can’t seem to fit in. She works at Kirby and Co. as a secretary. (I assume, based on the time period and a few references to “taking dictation.”) She wears conservative — normal — clothes and aspires to be the wife of Tony Kirby, the vice president of Kirby and Co. She’s a sweet girl who says she loves her family, but she just can’t get around to being proud of them.
One night, after a date with Mr. Tony Kirby, Alice finds herself engaged to be married. (It just sort of happens.) Alice frets over the differences between their families. After all, his family is so nice and normal and rich, and hers is so joyful and weird! Tony soothes her worries by saying what most men in these plays say: “Don’t worry! I love you, and that’s all that matters!”
So the Sycamores plan a lovely, normal dinner to keep Alice happy. They plan and plan. They cheerfully overhaul their happy, creative lives so she can present her totally boring family to another totally boring family. And then, because what else could happen in a farce, the Kirbys show up one night before the scheduled dinner. Oh, crap!
You can imagine what happens after that.
I have to say that I’ve never been a big fan of stories like this. I grew up with a ridiculous family that changed by the year, but I was never mortified by any of my parents. I certainly never tried to get them to pretend to be different so I could impress some boy. If my tone is a bit sarcastic, that’s why. I am happy to report that, despite my initial misgivings, this production did not poke this bear. It was delightful.
There are ninteeen characters in this play, which spans three acts. That’s a lot for a review (not to mention a reviewer) to handle, so — with apologies to the rest of the fine cast — I am going to focus on one thing: Nic Morse.
I’ve seen Nic in several productions over the last couple of years. He first caught my eye in a selection of one-act plays at Parkland College and, from what I understood at the time, it was his first play. I took note of his name and face, because I knew I would be seeing this kid a lot. Everything I’ve seen him do is great, from the Station Theatre’s How I Learned to Drive (in which he played a grandfather and a young teenager, among others) to You Can’t Take it With You. He’s charming and confident and at ease on stage, when he needs to be. He moves around with patience, free from self-consciousness. It’s refreshing and not a little bit inspiring.
When Nic Morse (above, in tux, seated) is on stage, he is what he says he is, whether it’s a rich man in love or a young boy talking to a girl along the railroad tracks. The best thing I can say about any actor is, “I believe you,” and I certainly believed Nic.
Nic Morse and the rest of the cast of You Can’t Take It With You have only a few performances left (one of those is tonight); so if you want to see this charming comedy, make plans now. Enjoy a good time with a sweet story of love and family (and love of family), and leave “normal” at the door.
For more information, go here.
Photos by Eric Ponder.