Cheri Maracle, Tara Sky and Madison Walsh in The Born-Again Crow | Photo by Jeremy Mimnagh
Carrie, both Stephen King’s novel and the original Brian DePalma film, has a special place in my heart. Watching the Buddies In Bad Times Theatre–Native Earth Performing Arts presentation of There is Violence and There is Righteous Violence and There is Death or, The Born-Again Crow, that classic was often in the back of my mind. They rhyme. A misunderstood, ostracized young woman, her rage building in an unjust system, harnesses her power and channels it into a cataclysmic comeuppance for the whole rotten society.
A punk indictment of the systems that distend our need and broaden the wedge between each other and nature, Caleigh Crow has given her angry, whimsical play one of those rambling superlong-or titles—a gimmick, of course, though if the flow is righteous (which it is here!), captures the ranting intensity of all the words that must to be said and capped with an acknowledgement of the need to compress, to simplify, to keep our eyes on the prize. And the prize here is human survival with our integrity intact.
As late stage capitalism wreaks havoc upon us, as we scramble for purchase on an increasingly treacherous, crumbling slope; Beth (Tara Sky) is most of us—working our asses off and to support an untenable system and empower its benefactors. Based on a news item about a girl whose feeding of local wildlife put her in conflict with disgruntled neighbours, Crow has crafted a narrative that feels truthful even when the reality of the situation is a little muddled. The neighbours are upset about an abundance of crows, but gunfire in a suburban backyard draws no attention?
Beth gets obsessed with feeding the local crows while forced to stay with her quirky mom. She’s got nowhere else to go after getting fired from her Superstore job for doing a bad thing. It takes a while for the full Beth to emerge; early on, we must gather intel from the scraps she drops in her morose, reclusive bearing. Eventually she unleashes a fervent sermon upon us and the powers that be, but even in her guarded moments Sky smolders. We can sense the trauma, know in out guts that the bad thing she did was incited by something far worse.
As her mom, Francine, Cheri Maracle has such offbeat, buoyant charm. Her behavioural ticks are hilarious. Just watching her putting the laundry out to dry is an endearing comedic spectacle that feels, paradoxically, both performative and fully genuine. Where is this sock gonna go? How about… maybe… right… ummmmmmmmmm… here! You have to be there to get it, you have take in the whole vibe as she carves an awkward, gentle, compassionate space for herself and her daughter. One of the most heartbreaking moments of the play is when Beth cruelly jabs her with a long-forgotten slur and the two must content with an eruption of painful memories.
An old boyfriend, Tanner (Dan Mousseau) shows up in their backyard, determined to rekindle their relationship. He is gradually revealed as an abhorrent representation of patriarchal control. After some awkward yet sweet overtures, his bullying tendencies rise to the surface and we understand where things went wrong for them—an authentic portrait of an abusive dynamic, where very real affection is deformed by toxic undercurrents. He says he wants to be a protector, with his gun and his demands for attention, but it’s just words to glorify his manly assertions of dominance.
Mousseau flexes his chameleonic chops in a few colourful roles. There’s Jim, the leader of the homeowners association, throwing his weight around in retaliation for bird shit on his fancy car. The determined way he zips up his document case after his petition fails to impress is a great gag. His turn as Stephen, Beth’s entitled Superstore boss, is stomach-churning—an apt depiction of a sleazy cog in the corporate machinery desperate to retain whatever small amount of control his position affords him. And then there is his camp rendition of the garish influencer facade that is Jane Lafontaine, a hot pink jumpsuit clad hulk of flamboyant, disingenuous pageantry masquerading as a news reporter.
Drawn by the ample feeders and, ultimately, an essential connection to Beth, a talking crow (Madison Walsh) appears to her. The punk ethos of this story is epitomized in this figure, whom costume designer Asa Benally has made a dark, radical misfit in human-bird form. Studded black denim and leather, emblazoned with Indigenous artwork; she is an ancestral guide for Beth—and Francine too. Some humour comes from their initial shock at her powers of speech, but their quick acceptance feels significant.
And just like Carrie, Beth unleashes some gloriously cathartic vengeance. We get a reenactment of the scene that lead to her violence at the Superstore, but it is the awful conspiracy of the neighbours that finally pushes her over the edge into warrior mode. Her Indigenous blood boiling at the blatant disrespect for her personhood, she lets loose in a galvanizing explosion. There are terrifying transmogrifications and all manner of accumulated stuff strewn about, turning this quaint backyard into a mythic space. It is an exhilarating mess, a surrealist depiction of revolution beautifully realized by the design team, and a defining visual of director Jessica Carmichael’s fanciful staging. The final moment, a poetic and clever sleight of hand, is swift and uplifting.
The Born-Again Crow
running March 9 to 29, 2025
Buddies in Bad Times Theatre (12 Alexander St.)
running time: 1 hour, 45 minutes (no intermission)
Madison Walsh, Tara Sky, and Dan Mousseau in The Born-Again Crow | Photo by Jeremy Mimnagh