Review: (Montreal) The List

Daring Happiness
by Caitlin Murphy

Umberto Eco said that “We like lists because we don't want to die.”  In Jennifer Tremblay's play The List, an unnamed woman – suffering an isolated existence in the country, drowning in domestic ennui – certainly feels like she's dying. Making lists of errands, chores and groceries is her one lifeline, a repeated reminder to herself that she exists and might matter. Translated into English by Shelley Tepperman and directed by Steph Ouaknine, No Exit Theatre's production of The List aims for much greater resonance than it musters; the discrepancy means that this story of a locked-in woman ends up leaving the audience locked out.

The 75-minute one-woman play begins with a shocking admission: though our housewife narrator (Torri Higginson) didn't actually kill her neighbour, Caroline, she is indeed responsible for her death. It's an intriguing starting point, a premise that gleefully merges the banal with the macabre. The woman goes on to recount how in her boredom, she became fixated on Caroline, mother of four, soon to be five. The contempt and resentment she has for Caroline's messy, laissez-faire life mixes uncomfortably with the awe and envy she has for her existential ease. Caroline is happy. How dare she be.

Review: (Toronto) The List

A Tragic Exploration of Motherhood and Survival  

by Spencer Malthouse

This play is not about being a good mother. This play is about the toll motherhood exacts on a woman. With children, “love is so easy,” but life is so hard. No Exit’s production of The List by Jennifer Tremblay is a seamlessly cinematic portrayal of a woman suffocating. This one-woman play explores motherhood through profound tragedy. 

The woman (Torri Higginson) claims responsibility for the death of her friend, Caroline – her one ally in this stifling village of nosy bitches. I admit that in the beginning I understood the woman’s motives as malicious. We learn that she hates living in the country, that she finds life with her three young sons stifling, that she can only cope by obsessively making lists of chores, and that she can’t always muster up the strength to tolerate Caroline’s insidiously saccharine knocks at her door.