Laurie Metcalf and Micah Stock in 'Little Bear Ridge Road.' Julieta Cervantes/Courtesy of DKC/O&M Share on Facebook Share on X Share to Flipboard Send an Email Show additional share options Share on LinkedIn Share on Pinterest Share on Reddit Share on Tumblr Share on Whats App Print the Article Post a Comment Damaged people navigating the push-pull struggle between isolation and connection, between emotional lockdown and empathy have been central to the work of Samuel D. Hunter, a MacArthur Genius Grant recipient and one of contemporary American drama's foremost humanists. The playwright makes his Broadway debut with Little Bear Ridge Road, a singularly beautiful piece that shifts almost imperceptibly from acerbic comedy to searing pathos before an ending whose bleakness is broken by a slender but luminous beam of hope. Commissioned by Chicago's Steppenwolf Theatre Company, where it premiered under Joe Mantello's exacting direction, the production brings the reliably brilliant Laurie Metcalf back to Broadway in a role that dovetails neatly with her strengths. Playing Sarah, a flinty nurse involuntarily nearing retirement and living in Northern Idaho as far from other people as she can get, Metcalf exercises her usual peerless comic timing, tossing off line readings in a blunt deadpan that never misses. Only gradually does she allow reluctant glimpses of the fragility forced on her by the betrayal of her body. Related Stories Lifestyle Aaron Tveit's Café Carlyle Shows Lead to Fall Campaign for Designer Todd Snyder TV Margaret DePriest, Writer on 'General Hospital,' 'Days of Our Lives' and Lots of Other Soaps, Dies at 94 The welcome surprise here is that Micah Stock matches Metcalf beat for beat as Sarah's semi-estranged nephew, Ethan, in a performance steeped in raw feeling, self-flagellation and his own distinctive way with a tart-tongued barb. Stock's previous Broadway appearances have been in the farcical backstage comedy It's Only a Play and the rapid-fire journalism satire The Front Page. Here, he's working in an entirely different vein, mining humor from what might seem at first to be a sad-sack character in a dead-end life as his arc builds steadily toward a stunning emotional catharsis. At the risk of treading into spoiler territory for people able to see the play, that lacerating moment climaxes - after a heated back and forth of bruising truths with his aunt - in Ethan's desperate cry of anger and anguish: "I don't know how to be a person in this terrible fucking nightmarish world!" Many of us have had variations on that thought in these anxiety-inducing times and this viciously divided country, worsened by lingering pandemic hangover. Hunter is a master of tapping us into that kind of existential terror, even if our lives are nothing like that of a stalled writer hiding out in remote Idaho. Which probably makes this play sound dour and downbeat, neither of which it is. Ethan turns up soon after the death of his meth-addict father in 2020 at his aunt's house about a half-hour outside of Moscow (where the playwright grew up), his face half-hidden by a mask in the early days of COVID. There's no warmth from either side in his reunion with curmudgeonly Sarah, from whom Ethan just needs the deed to his father's home so he can sell it and get out of there. Their initial exchanges are terse and distant, negotiating each other from opposite sides of an ugly gray leather (or more likely vinyl) reclining couch that's pretty much the extent of designer Scott Pask's austere set. The sofa sits on a gray-carpeted circular turntable, which shifts to suggest the play's handful of different locations. It's surrounded by a void of blackness that hints at the vast expanse of starry sky, discussed but never seen, a sharp contrast to the night skies over Seattle, where Ethan has been living. Though there's no evidence of a thaw, Sarah eventually mumbles a begrudging "I'm sorry about your dad." Ethan replies with an equally affectless, "I'm sorry about your brother." When his childhood experiences of being the bullied queer kid in school come up, Ethan nervously wonders if his aunt minds him discussing his sexuality, given his assumption that she's religious. Sarah quickly sets him straight on her atheism, adding, "All this time you've thought I had an issue with you being gay? That's the most interesting thing about you." Metcalf handles that kind of unfiltered stinger like a soldier lobbing grenades with casual disregard. Sarah's appearance matches her demeanor, from her utilitarian workwear to hair that looks like it's been cut with a knife. But despite her intimidating manner, she insists Ethan stay in her spare room, observing that his car appears to be packed with everything he owns. Hunter has an unerring command of the character-driven play in which very little happens that could be called conventional drama. Sarah prods Ethan as to why he studied writing in college but has produced nothing. He admits he was fo