We meet Gail (Elizabeth A. Davis) and Ben (Dan Amboyer) during sexual role play, he a southern prison guard, she a Russian convict. Despite his character ostensibly having the upper hand, Gail is directing, her husband acquiescing. Still, it works for the couple and gets our attention.
The play is set in the bathroom of a trailer in Vermont. Gail sells homemade jewelry, Ben fixes luxury cars. Business is bad. They’re in their thirties.
When she accidentally (?) gets pregnant, Gail slams into anxiety as if brakeless, while Ben, delighted, buys blue and white balloons. He takes a job selling cars requiring a move to New Jersey. She’s hesitant, but agrees hoping for an upgrade. The trailer, however, goes with them.
Ben is a modest success and happy. Gail grows more depressed. Changes in clothes are pulled from a hamper. (Overalls include a built-in baby bump. She changes in the bath tub.) Blackout. We hear a baby cry. Ben goes to work and returns to discover his wife has fed the infant a (cut up) hot dog. “He can’t eat solid food yet!” This is the last time Gail interacts with her child.
The errant mother notices audience. “Hey guys, how’s it going? Ben and I had a kid. It’s been great,” she says ignoring wails from another room, trying to convince herself. “Do you mind if I hang out here a bit while things settle down out there?” Though hallucinating company is plausible, extent and content are the least well written part of the play.
Research identified these main symptoms of postpartum depression: Sadness, anxiety, irritability. Feelings of guilt and worthlessness, hopelessness, helplessness. Loss of interest in activities. Trouble forming emotional attachment/bonding with a new baby. Fatigue. Difficulty making decisions…The medical and psychological community acknowledge the state as real and damaging.
In the last few years, celebrities such as Gwyneth Paltrow, Reese Witherspoon, Brooke Shields, Adele, and Drew Barrymore have made their postpartum depression public in hopes of eliminating doubt and alleviating historical stigma.
Gail goes down the rabbit hole. When she has success on the online crafts marketplace Etsy, at her suggestion, husband and wife switch parenting roles. She increasingly talks to us, eventually positing that the baby might just be Ben’s imagination. He won’t bring the child to her hoping she might be convinced to leave the bathroom – where she now lives full time. Years – there’s a reason to assume it’s years – pass (?). Nothing her agonized husband tries breaks the pattern.
At 90 minutes, the piece goes on at least 20 minutes too long. Gail’s numb misery is well framed, but that Ben enables her obvious decline, that he doesn’t contact a mental health practitioner or institution, is unbelievable. “Maybe tomorrow” is her response to every proposal he makes. Max Mondi’s play offers an interesting and sympathetic concept, but is over-padded and in one important way, not credible.
Elizabeth A. Davis deftly portrays conceivable withdrawal from all but Gail’s eroding reality. Stop-start action and pendulum swing between sweetly phrased evasion end angry challenge land well. Appeals to “us” employing friendly terms allow signs of wretchedness.
Dan Amboyer comes and goes in brief segments that don’t give the actor much chance to inhabit character. Deep love for Gail and flashes of palpable despair/desperation do, however, come through.
Director Chad Austin does a superb job of creating Gail’s distractions, avoidance, obsession and stillness. The single time she steps outside is well played. No intimacy director is credited. Austin also handles this well. Ben’s appearances, though, seem rushed. He gives up too easily.
The open framed box (set) by Josafath Raynoso is well appointed with components of a bathroom. Complete exposure is effective. Costumes by Siena Zoe Allen realistically depict Gail’s comfortable sloth and Ben’s various daily roles. Sound design (Evdoxia Ragkou) is subtle and well chosen.
Photos by Grace Copeland
Abingdon Theatre Company presents
Maybe Tomorrow by Max Mondi
Directed by Chad Austin
Through April 6, 2025
A.R.T. New York Theatres
502 West 53rd Street
