"Grangeville": A Bleak yet Hopeful Exploration of Brotherhood and Family Trauma

The Play’s Distant Setup and Its Challenges

Samuel D. Hunter’s Grangeville, a two-hander set in the playwright’s hometown of the same name, opens with a sense of distance—both literal and emotional. The play centers around two estranged half brothers, Arnold and Jerry, living thousands of miles apart: Arnold in Rotterdam and Jerry in Idaho. Their strained relationship is mirrored in the production’s staging, where the two characters are often kept on opposite sides of a dim, featureless stage. The set, designed by the collective dots, initially consists of black walls and a makeshift trailer door, symbolizing their fractured and unsheltered childhoods. The eerie sound design by Christopher Darbassie and the crepuscular lighting by Stacey Derosier amplify the play’s cold, detached atmosphere, making it feel like a radio play at times.

Despite its artistic ambition, the production struggles to bridge the emotional gap between the characters. Hunter, known for his mastery of banality, buries the Cain-and-Abel subtext of the brothers’ relationship under repetitive and somewhat unconvincing discussions about their dying mother’s finances. Jerry, an RV salesman in his 50s, is overwhelmed by his inability to manage her bank accounts and bills, while Arnold, a decade younger and long estranged from the family, resents being pulled back into this messy reality. The play’s early scenes feel stifled by this focus on practicalities, leaving the deeper emotional trenches of their relationship unexplored.

A Fraternal Struggle Rooted in Trauma

Beneath the surface of their financial squabbles lies a far more profound conflict, one that evokes the classic fraternal struggles of plays by Arthur Miller, Sam Shepard, and Suzan-Lori Parks—not to mention the Bible. Through sparse but powerful dialogue, Hunter reveals how both brothers were brutalized by their mother’s violent husbands and her absence during her drinking benders. Jerry, in a failed attempt to protect Arnold, became a brutalizer himself, trying to “toughen him up” to survive. The consequences of this toxic dynamic are stark: Arnold fled Idaho, building a thick emotional shield and even distancing himself from English by marrying a Dutch man, Bram.

Arnold’s artwork, a series of dioramas depicting Grangeville landmarks like the local tattoo parlor and Dairy Queen, becomes a coping mechanism for his buried trauma. These dioramas, which outsiders interpret as critiques of America, are for Arnold a way to reconnect with a home he otherwise cannot tolerate. Yet, as the play progresses, even this creative outlet begins to fail him, leaving him adrift in anger and resentment. His relationship with Bram starts to fray, mirroring the parallel tensions between Jerry and his wife, Stacey, back in Idaho. These marital struggles, while secondary to the brothers’ conflict, add depth to the narrative, highlighting the ripple effects of their shared trauma.

A Production That Finds Its Footing

The play’s turning point comes when the actors, Brian J. Smith (Arnold) and Paul Sparks (Jerry), take on secondary roles as Bram and Stacey, respectively. These scenes are a revelation, transforming the production from a distant, cerebral exercise into a deeply human drama. Smith, as the measured and logical Bram, brings a sense of grounding to Arnold’s chaos, while Sparks, as Stacey, offers a poignant counterpoint to Jerry’s wheedling. These moments of role-switching not only showcase the actors’ versatility but also underscore the idea that family dynamics are inescapable, no matter how far we try to run.

Love, Family, and the Possibility of Hope

The play’s final act is a masterclass in emotional subtlety. Arnold and Jerry, now in the same physical and emotional space, confront their past and each other with a raw honesty that feels both painful and cathartic. The production’s earlier detachment gives way to a sense of intimacy, and the actors rise to the occasion, delivering performances that are both nuanced and powerful. Sparks, in particular, shines as he brings a quiet intensity to both Jerry and Bram, while Smith captures Arnold’s vulnerability and rage with equal precision.

As the play concludes, Hunter offers a glimmer of hope—not the kind that erases pain or undoes the past, but the kind that allows for small, incremental steps toward healing. It’s a testament to the resilience of human connection, even in the face of profound trauma. Grangeville is not an easy play, but it is a necessary one, reminding us that family, for all its flaws and scars, is a bond we cannot fully escape—or perhaps, one we should not fully escape. In the end, it’s not fate that defines us, but the endless possibility of second chances.