Annie Baker’s latest triumph Infinite Life, which ushers in the new season at Coal Mine Theatre, is a deeply affecting and thought-provoking masterclass in restraint that poses a succession of unsettling and profound questions. Among them…is life really just pain? Or does pain get in the way of life? Or is life the challenge of overcoming pain — in order to recognize, then seize — joy and connection that are readily available to us, and might just make life worth living?
This production, masterfully directed by Jackie Maxwell, continues Baker’s tradition of turning seemingly small moments into mesmerizing existential ponderings. Known for her introspective works like The Flick and John, Baker once again uses a mundane setting and plain-spoken dialogue to explore life’s greatest mysteries—in this case, the nature of suffering, our relentless desire to alleviate it . . . and the mysteries of why.
The premise of Infinite Life is brilliantly straightforward: five women and one man are fasting at a Northern California clinic. Under treatment prescribed by Urken, the clinic’s mysterious health care provider, they hope to cure the different forms of chronic pain from which they are all suffering.
A stunning minimalist set brings the clinic setting to life. Joyce Padua’s simple design—six light-blue outdoor lounge chairs, lined up in front of a warm terracotta wall dotted with light sconces—captures the serene, sterile and slightly surreal atmosphere of what seems to be a refurbished motel. The chairs directly face the audience . . . and we soon learn that where we’re sitting is not a pool or beach. We’re the bakery next door.
In this unglamorous industrial setting, the characters will shuffle pain-wracked bodies onto the stage, then gingerly sit or lie or sleep in the lounge chairs for a spell . . . then shuffle off back to their rooms. In between entrances and exits, they converse in a dizzying succession of configurations: alone, as pairs or trios, or in one scene as a whole group. Each interaction – sometimes preceded by an adjustment of the lounge chair or a turning of it towards the neighbour in the next chair — is given room to breathe. And this naturalistic, haphazard sense of reality is enhanced by Steve Lucas’ warm lighting, which evokes by turns the lazy, hazy feeling of a sunny California day . . . or the light blue of evening or cool blue of night.
We are drawn into the languid pacing, where conversation meanders, Becket-like, marked only by conversational markers such as “18 hours later,” spoken aloud by Christine Horne’s Sofi, who is the principal character and the first we meet. Sofi is younger than the other 60-ish women by at least 15 years, and her emotional pain is as palpable as her physical agony. Her portrayal is twitchy, often irritated . . . and meticulous, as Sofi obsessively checks her phone for texts from her distant husband and teases an unnamed lover. Horne masterfully toggles between vulnerability and seduction, leaving us intrigued and sympathetic . . . but also distanced. Her pains keep us at arm’s length – first, because we can access them only through externalities – and then, when she begins explaining them to the other characters, because they are so strikingly and (in my experience anyways) so unusual.
The other acting performances are equally compelling. Nancy Palk’s Eileen is gracious and elegant, yet quietly tormented. Her ultra-economical body language and pain-wracked voice speak volumes as she slowly succumbs to her worsening pain. Brenda Bazinet brings a clear-eyed, no-nonsense resolve to the character of Elaine, while Jean Yoon brings a humorous confident edge to Ginnie’s reflections on aging and mortality, and to her quietly exquisite capacity for self-care. And Kyra Harper’s Yvette is a delight — offering much-needed comic relief with her deadpan recounting of a literally endless list of ailments . . . married with an incongruously relentless optimism that makes her one of the play’s more endearing figures.
Meanwhile, Ari Cohen’s Nelson, the sole man among the group, floats in and out of scenes, his younger age and almost pathologically laid-back demeanor contrasting sharply with the chattiness of the women. Cohen captures Nelson’s curious detachment in a performance of pregnant pauses and surprising suggestions, which makes the few moments of connection between him and the others even more impactful.
The only thing shared by these six – whose interactions we experience in a succession of permutations and combinations spread across several days – is pain. Otherwise, as we learn through their conversations, they are strikingly different: married, single, in an open marriage, flirting with infidelity, porn-watching, devoutly Christian, and so on. Here before us is a thoughtful, rich diversity of life experience, belief, origin and age — not infinite life . . . but a substantial variety. And in keeping with this variety, the characters’ dialogue swings from the quotidian to the absurdly funny to the deeply philosophical. Between pain-wracked sighs and sips, they engage on meaty topics like the futility of fighting against our own bodies and the elusive nature of true relief. They conduct absurd bouts of competitive suffering. And they enter Seinfeld territory with trivial side-trips into audio pornography and the number of sphincters in the body.
Maxwell’s direction tracks the characters’ physical weakening as they continue their fast. As their conversations become slower and more laboured, we are drawn ever-deeper into their worlds, until even the smallest gestures—like Sofi stroking Eileen’s ankle—take on monumental significance.
In the end, Infinite Life captivates because it stages – on a theatre of chronic and unglamorous pain — a slow-burning, exquisitely-acted meditation on the human condition. Moments of deeper reflection are punctuated by silence, allowing the weight of the words—and equally critically, the spaces between them—to linger.
Baker’s writing and these gloriously varied performances confront us with the trap of solipsism: how easy it is to see our pain as unique and our struggles as unmatched – and to sit in them, rather than look up and reach out.
But as the characters slowly reveal their vulnerabilities, Infinite Life gently, even tenderly, nudges us. It reminds us – with moments of connection that happen . . . and with others that don’t, when characters glance off each other and fall back into their own orbits – that we need not be alone in our suffering. That life, with all its pain and complexity, is made bearable by our ability to connect with others.
And that when we permit them to form, even the fleeting bonds between strangers tap into something infinite and glorious. They won’t heal the pain that isolates us . . . but they just might show us its value.
Infinite Life runs at Coal Mine Theatre until September 29, 2024. Don’t miss the chance to see this deeply affecting and thought-provoking masterclass in restraint. Visit coalminetheatre.com to reserve tickets.
© Scott Sneddon, Sesaya Arts Magazine, 2024
