Istvan Dugalin ➤

Brendan Kinnon and Lindsay Merrithew in Red | Photo by Damon McLean

When Ken first shows up at Mark Rothko’s New York studio, he’s wearing an elegant, tailored suit. The gruff and dishevelled Rothko wastes no time in setting him straight. This is a place of rough, mucky work and he sets the eager young man—his new assistant—straight to it. Distracting from their labour—yet also informing it and drawing them together—are impassioned conversations about art. John Logan’s play, Red, presented by Riot King in association with Tipping Hand Media, revels in the glorious contradictions that define their volatile dynamic and the art itself.

The context of their relationship is the Seagram Murals, a series of paintings commissioned in the late 1950s by the then under-construction Four Seasons restaurant, which Rothko would ultimately rescind. The purity, purpose and commerciality of art; the inspiration, fabrication and corporeality of art; the paradoxical phenomenon of art as both vitally meaningful and “just paintings”—the men wrestle with these notions as they provoke and challenge each other. It seems, at first, as though Rothko (Lindsay Merrithew), the esteemed artist, is the proper authority, passing on his insights to a new, Pop Art generation represented here by Ken (Brendan Kinnon), but we gradually realize that Rothko himself, the archetypal father who must be supplanted, isn’t the only credible voice in the room.

Merrithew is an astonishing presence. The way smokes his cigarettes, pushes his glasses up into his hair, his rages and quiet attention when something Ken says hits deeper than expected—it is all so fully embodied and authentic. He felt very familiar and it slowly dawned on me why: his portrayal reminded me of my father, whom I lost a year and a half ago. The intellect, the cantankerous disposition and forthright manner that could seem cruel if he caught you at a weak moment yet is, if you can withstand the surly facade, an expression of integrity—these are traits that strike a deep chord in me.

Kinnon excels at naturalistic business. The stretching of a canvas, the mixing of paint, the routines of artistic prep—he renders these mundanities with efficiency and affection. His chemistry with Merrithew is palpable. He’s especially urgent and vulnerable when confronting him head on. He falters somewhat with Ken’s traumatic backstory which feels clunky and unconvincing, though this isn’t entirely a fault of performance. That is the weakest aspect of Logan’s script and feels more like a serviceable placeholder than a genuine revelation.

For the most part, though, the dialogue is clever and resonant, acknowledging the cliches of their artistic sparring sessions and bursting with endearing philosophical pretensions. “What is red?” leads to an almost absurdist recitation of associations, from the insightful to the ridiculous. Nietzsche rears his ubiquitous head because of course he does. One of my all-time favourite lines, which I found deeply moving in context, occurs after an intense argument: Ken is sure he’s going to be fired and Rothko retorts “Fired? This is the first you’ve existed!”

Director Kenzia Dalie’s staging is wholly lived-in and persuasive. Her set design conveys the idiosyncratic, methodical madness of an artist’s studio—work tables with their patina of use and convincing clutter. Kit Norman’s lighting drenches the stage in red—hardly a surprising choice, though the nuanced highlights create a rich and textured atmosphere. Rothko himself prefers the gentle murk to bright daylight for the mystique it affords his paintings, letting the observer’s imagination contribute to their power. This manufactured illusion is intensified by a jarring contrast as some overhead florescent tubes suddenly yank us out of the warm cocoon, exposing the harsh reality of the studio-cum-theatre set.

The murals here have been painted by Ian Harper, who has done a fine job of capturing Rothko’s oeuvre. Kathleen Welch’s costumes are likewise emblematic of each man’s distinct personality. The music that frequently underscores scenes helps establish their contrasting tastes—Rothko’s classical suites and opera, Ken’s jazz.

Two moments that felt iconic to me: a protracted sequence in which they work side-by-side to prime a huge canvas, music propelling them into a sort of ecstasy, making their monotonous task strangely exhilarating; and a tender moment as Ken kneels down to wash the hands of this titan—a very biblical tableau, simultaneously poetic and genuine. And that holds true for the whole gestalt of Red.

Red
running March 28 to April 6, 2025
The Theatre Centre, BMO Incubator (1115 Queen St. West)
running time: 90 minutes (no intermission)

Lindsay Merrithew in Red | Photo by Damon McLean