Sarah Fernsby, a fiercely independent woman living on her Idaho acreage, doesn’t need anyone – and she’ll make sure you know it. Armed with a rifle and a formidable personality, she tackles life head-on, even if it means her truck barely notices hitting wildlife. Her demeanor is “bulldozer aggressive” with a “tripwire temper,” seemingly allergic to emotional subtlety.
But in Samuel D. Hunter’s perceptive and heartfelt play, “Little Bear Ridge Road,” Metcalf delivers a truly magnificent portrayal of Sarah. She creates one of the most hilariously authentic and profoundly human characters to grace a New York stage recently.
This makes for an incredibly entertaining evening, despite Sarah’s decidedly unglamorous and small-town existence. As she aptly observes about dramatic TV, “Real people aren’t always desperately doing things.”
A prolific Off-Broadway writer known for his Idaho-set plays, Hunter marks his Broadway debut with “Little Bear Ridge Road.” The play, which first premiered at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theater Company last year, arrives on Broadway courtesy of producers Scott Rudin (making a return after earlier allegations) and Barry Diller. The entire production radiates the impeccable taste for which Rudin is renowned.
“Little Bear Ridge Road” delves into the corrosive effects of social isolation and the challenging ideal of self-reliance. It opens in the midst of the Covid-19 pandemic, with the world in lockdown. Sarah certainly isn’t seeking company, but it arrives unexpectedly in the form of her nephew, Ethan (Micah Stock), whom she hasn’t seen in years. He returns from Seattle, masked and cautious, to sell his recently deceased father’s — Sarah’s brother’s — home.
These two, the last surviving Fernsbys, are a pair of distrustful, sharply sarcastic loners. Sarah, a nurse with almost four decades of experience (and a knack for making colleagues cry), hides an underlying capacity for kindness. Ethan, an M.F.A. holder adrift in his fiction writing, grapples with resentment towards his late father, whose meth addiction cast a dark shadow over his childhood and whose last communication was a plea for money.
When Sarah reluctantly invites Ethan to stay, they unknowingly embark on a journey of profound familial intimacy, a connection both have meticulously avoided.
“You’ll have to be patient with me,” she gruffly warns, unaccustomed to sharing her space, a sentiment that applies equally to him. Slowly, as he extends his stay through the pandemic and beyond, they begin to soften each other — the nephew who isn’t grieving his father, and the aunt who couldn’t save her brother or his child.
Joe Mantello’s direction, coupled with an outstanding ensemble cast, remarkably captures the unsettling, anxious atmosphere of early Covid. The stage, designed by Scott Pask with lighting by Heather Gilbert, features a “couch in a void” — a large, beige recliner on a sand-colored carpet.
Initially, the surrounding stage is shrouded in darkness, symbolizing the profound isolation of that period. The pandemic serves as the play’s emotional backdrop, exploring American cultural isolation while also documenting specific historical moments.
Will future audiences fully grasp why Ethan wore a mask in 2020, why he initially avoided his aunt, or why his father died alone in a hospital? (“They still aren’t allowing visitors,” Sarah explains.) Will they understand the strangeness of being in a bar again, or Ethan’s reflexive hand-shake when meeting James (John Drea), a graduate student, for a casual encounter?
As the world gradually reopens, so too does the play’s visual scope, offering a sense of the cosmic. This is partly thanks to James, an astrophysics student who becomes more than a fleeting connection, and partly to Pask’s magnificent, textured upstage wall, now visible in its abstract grandeur, infusing the play’s world with the immensity of nature.
The characters’ emotional defenses also soften. Sarah and Ethan bridge much of their emotional gap, while the gentle James — who experienced a privileged upbringing devoid of trauma and isn’t afraid of love — carefully steps closer to Ethan’s heart.
Yet, love brings its own fears, such as needing someone or the pain of loss. Without giving away specifics, the play doesn’t shy away from critiquing the U.S. healthcare system and broader societal decay.
After a frustrating call about a medical bill, Ethan exclaims, “I hate this country!” Sarah’s dry response: “Trust me, it hates you more.”
Metcalf’s powerful performance consistently resists any hint of sentimentality. Hunter, however, shows a slight inclination towards it, a trait also evident in his earlier Idaho-set play, “The Whale,” which first brought him recognition over a decade ago.
The conclusion of “Little Bear Ridge Road” subtly echoes “The Whale” with a character’s request (no spoilers) and an explicit articulation of the play’s message. While this elucidation might feel unnecessary, it aligns logically within the play’s narrative.
Early in 2020, after Ethan’s arrival, he and Sarah bond over a TV series, eventually joined by James. They invest countless hours across seasons, only for the finale to disappoint. Ethan, genuinely outraged, declares it “the single worst episode of television I have ever seen.”
“Little Bear Ridge Road” asks for just 95 minutes, uninterrupted. And while Hunter offers a neatly tied ending, it’s a deliberate choice for his story, ensuring that, unlike that frustrating TV show, you won’t leave feeling dissatisfied.
Little Bear Ridge Road runs through February 15 at the Booth Theater in Manhattan. The running time is 1 hour and 35 minutes.