The play begins in an old farmhouse where Diane and Nat, who met a few days ago on the road as they were trying to get away, have taken shelter. Nat is ill and Diane nurses him back to health. They develop a sort of rhythm of going out and scavenging for supplies between bird attacks (every six hours, based on the tides). An injured young woman named Julie shows up at their door and they take her in, and she becomes part of their group. They enjoy a certain friendship, but it becomes apparent that they don't really know each other very well. Can they trust each other? They notice a reclusive farmer across the lake, but he doesn't seem friendly so they avoid him. One day when Nat and Julie have gone to town, the farmer visits Diane and asks her to join him so he can "take care of her." She rejects him and he leaves. Meanwhile, Nat and Julie have grown closer, which upsets Diane. She's a writer who is keeping a journal, and we occasionally hear bits of her journal in voiceover, which lets us see into her thoughts a little. Diane goes to extreme lengths to ensure her own survival, because as she says, "what's so great about the human race anyway?" It's a bleak story, and I don't love the narrative of two women fighting over a man, but it's an interesting thought experiment about human nature and what we would do in extreme circumstances.*
When I saw this play 13 years ago at the Guthrie (yes, I've been doing this a long time - this summer Cherry and Spoon will be 15 years old!), it was performed without an intermission. That is the ideal way to stage a thriller like this; with the suspense and tension building, you don't want to let the audience off the hook while they take a break to scroll through Instagram or get a snack. But I understand endurance-wise that may not always be possible (although after seeing the amazing Sarah Snook barrel through The Picture of Dorian Gray for two hours straight barely taking a breath, I have a new understanding of just what is possible). That being said, the choice by director Joe Hendren to employ a slow and thoughtful pace is an effective one. The moments of silence really ramp up the tension, as we listen to birds fluttering and banging seemingly all around us, and wonder what's going on in these humans heads.
Kari Elizabeth Godfrey plays Diane as a ball of constant tension, flinching at every sound, eyes darting around in terror. As the play goes on, she slowly reveals deeper layers to the character. She's well-matched in Tim Reddy as Nat; the two have a believable wary chemistry. Ankita Ashrit is a charming and enigmatic Julie; you're never quite sure what her motives. Rounding out the cast is Jon Stentz as the weird and scary neighbor, appearing only in one scene but leaving quite an impression.
A boarded-up door and window hint at the house we're in, with a worn couch on one side of the space and a kitchen area with scavenged supplies on the other. Characters are dressed in functional post-apocalyptic wear. But the real star in the design department is the sound; in the intimate space of the Hive, it truly feels like we're surrounded by birds - fluttering and banging and cawing coming from all sides of the space. We never see the birds, but the sound is enough to convey the terror these folks are living with, perhaps explaining their choices. (Sound design by Forest Godfrey, lighting design by Bill Larsen, and props design by Heather Edwards.)
If the real world isn't terrifying enough for you, check out The Birds to see how these interesting, complex, flawed humans deal with a very specific avian terror.