Broadway in Detroit opens up its soul — and its closet — at the Gem Theatre. A credit to the art of storytelling, Love, Loss, and What I Wore (by Nora Ephron and Delia Ephron, based on the book by Ilene Beckerman) takes a near-universal hook and uses understated camaraderie to make its expected material fresh. Director Karen Carpenter plays into, not against, the form, delivering a humorous and poignant reverie on the clothes that make the woman.
Every aspect of the production is simplicity done with panache. Jo Winiarski’s scenic design lets five tall chairs stand out on a bare stage, upon which Jeff Croiter’s delicious lighting scheme throws morphing hues and practical spotlight focus. Costumer Ren LaDassor demonstrates why the little black dress is a girl’s best friend, using the staple to unify five distinctly flattering looks. Excepting the solid microphone work, sound design by Walter Trarbach is relegated to bookends of the ninety-minute production, but makes an impression with peppy wardrobe-themed hits. Other than calculated gestures and timing, the staging is essentially nil; the cast sits in a static line and reads from binders. Yet this implies some deficit on the part of the production, when the choice actually reveals itself to be a strength, focusing on the stories themselves as much as the people telling them, and emphasizing the representative nature of these tales in the grand shopping-borrowing-buying-making-critiquing-outgrowing-ruining-resenting-discarding experience.
The single thread that both inspired and binds these stories is the character Gingy (Loretta Swit), who pieces together the major developments of her life through vivid recollections of the clothes that accompanied her on the journey, with a backdrop of drawings as visual aids. In an interesting turn, Swit speaks only as Gingy, holding back from the glut of other stories and contributions (read by Emily Dorsch, Daisy Eagan, Sonia Manzano, and Myra Lucretia Taylor). The first-person narrative structure makes evident thematic and confessional parallels to The Vagina Monologues, but this script is its own entity: fashion colors our perceptions of self and others, sometimes burning an indelible brand onto our memories just as important as the outward events. Body image, romantic relationships, puberty, milestone special occasions, and horror stories alike can be closely tied in with what we wear and how it makes us feel, and this text sweeps through the obvious “Does this make me look fat?” on its way to more personal, illustrative destinations. The take is exclusively Western, and essentially secular — religiously mandated garments, symbols, and modesty are never focal points — but the material will feel particularly inclusive for a large population of women, those whose fashion choices have been guided by disapproving mothers, retrospectively suspect trends, and often-comic attempts at reinvention.
Each performer brings something specific and needed to the piece. Dorsch gets fully swept up in her performances, returning to the recalled memories as fresh as if they were happening in the moment. Petulant snits are Eagan’s bread and butter, delivered with a cognizant smirk that somehow doesn’t discount their petty conviction. Whereas many of the characters feel like versions of oneself, Manzano ventures into vocally distinct and idiosyncratic creations, developing a variety of outspoken types with frank assertiveness. And with an emphatic rant about a particular despised essential, Taylor nearly stops the show, remonstrating with effusive emotion and precise control that turns a monologue into a legitimate spoken-word opus. Detailed personal stories (from real-life contributors) are offset by snippets of variation on a single theme, in which the four voices find easy harmony in practiced overlap and unison. For her part, Swit is a fascinating entry point, patiently weaving a story that demands to be resolved by virtue of her engaging reminiscence. Carpenter’s emphasis on recounting keeps things fond and amiable; the inherent distance provides an element of safety from the most painful material, and the conspiratorial perspective tips the atmosphere toward inclusive and jovial. The ensemble members listen attentively and contribute their own laughter and assent, guiding the viewer into a warm and funny theater experience.
In all, Love, Loss, and What I Wore delivers on the expansive promise of its simple title, relishing the amazing transformation from a mere garment into a reflection of its wearer as well as a powerful vessel for memory. As told by this quintet, the stories are wickedly funny, powerfully evocative, and widely sympathetic in short order. Any viewer who’s ever gazed bereft into her wardrobe will find some point of connection, upon which this production builds a lively and uplifting rapport.