ALL SOULS DAY
It’s impossible to say how many young Catholic girls seriously considered marrying God when they grew up. I know I did, and I think my cousin did too.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Strange notion, that women can marry God and become saints. Men have often dedicated their lives to God and become saints, but the word “marry” rarely comes into play. After seeing Lookingglass Theatre’s All Souls Day: The Life of St. Catherine of Siena as Confessed to Raymond of Capua With an Epiphany by St. Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower, I really began to wonder about this difference. All Souls Day, written and directed by Joy Gregory, chronicles Saint Catherine’s spiritual journey toward God: her wild holy visions, penitence, determination, and powerful passion. It also touches on the simple faith of Saint Therese, “the Little Flower,” who in many ways is Saint Catherine’s spiritual antithesis. These two women actually believed that they were married to God. And that marriage was one fiery road of suffering and holy joy.
Lookingglass works in the experimental style of the 60s, changing characters by changing a hat, deftly incorporating dance, dialogue, and narration to tell its stories. Thirty years later this style no longer shocks with its unconventionality–it seems instead a happily fitting device to tell two true if somewhat bizarre stories. Catherine of Siena’s tale is narrated by her confessor, Raymond of Capua (Philip R. Smith), in a sort of grade-school catechism language. Raymond tells, for instance, how Catherine’s mother, “a fruitful vine in the house of her husband,” gave birth to many children, including several sets of twins, and the company act out this story, passing imaginary babies from one to the other.
At the very end, “the Guest” reappears. Her costume indicates that she’s not one of the actors, yet her clothes are too dated to make her a member of the audience. Who is she? What happened to her? She was sick at the beginning of the show and she still seems weak. “There are already things I can’t remember,” she announces. “That’s perfectly normal,” is the response. “You can go now. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” She puts her shoes back on, takes her purse, and climbs the ladder to the blue firmament above the stage as scraps of paper flutter down around her. It’s a beautiful but unmeaning image–there are too many questions surrounding her identity.
