Grangeville

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Samuel D. Hunter’s remarkable ability to distill profound human experiences into intimate, seemingly modest narratives is what makes his work so enduringly beautiful. His plays—such as The Whale, Greater Clements, and most recently A Case for the Existence of God—are meticulously crafted, capturing the intricacies of rural Idaho life with breathtaking detail. They explore timeless themes—physical constraints, financial stress, queer identity, and the situations surrounding family and faith (and the loss of both)—with a depth that never feels minimizing. His new play, Grangeville, making its world premiere at Signature Theatre under the sensitive direction of Jack Serio, remains true to his oeuvre, delivering a rich and compassionate exploration of these issues.

The play begins in impenetrable darkness. We hear voices on the phone. Here commences the intimate yet electrically charged two-actor dynamic. Brian J. Smith plays Arnold, a gay visual artist who has escaped Idaho for a life in the Netherlands, while Paul Sparks portrays Jerry, his older half-brother and former tormentor, who is reaching out when their mother is on her deathbed. The play is structured around their long-distance interactions, primarily through phone calls and video chats, which underscore their deep mutual estrangement. At the outset, their conversations find them utterly disconnected, both physically and emotionally. Serio places them at polar extremes onstage and as the Griffin Jewel Box is the smallest of the three venues at The Signature Center it still somehow manages to appear that it is an enormous chasm that separates them.

In the opening scenes, amidst clinical discussions of prognoses and powers of attorney, “God, one last middle finger before she dies, huh?,” we are gradually exposed to the deep scars left by the men’s traumatic upbringing. Both were brutalized by their mother’s violent partners, compounded by her frequent absences due to drinking binges. Predictably, Jerry has become a brutalizer himself, though he offers a feeble justification for his actions—believing, in hindsight, that his cruelty was somehow meant to toughen the sensitive gay Arnold for survival.

Jerry is too blissfully ignorant to realize his gay half-brother on the other end of this phone call is filled with so much loathing for anything having to do with “home.” As the playing space fills with light ever so unhurriedly, we feel we may be witnessing the final seconds before Arnold’s jugular bursts in what may be one of the most tense long distance phone calls ever on a stage. And to think the whole conversation began with him picking up the phone and saying one word…”Okay.”

Oh, but they are both so very far from “okay.” To quote the Jelly Roll song, “I am not okay/I’m barely getting by/I’m losing track of days/And losing sleep at night/I am not okay/I’m hanging on the rails/So if I say I’m fine/Just know I learned to hide it well.” Jerry’s marriage is in trouble and apparently so is Arnold’s. Jerry has never amounted to much, currently treading water selling recreational vehicles in an area where anyone who wants one already has one (or lives in one). His wife Stacey has asked him to move out of the house. Arnold was once a bright light as an artist poking fun at his painful upbringing in whimsical dioramas depicting local Grangeville haunts like the Dairy Queen and tattoo parlor that took the art world by storm. His later serious work doesn’t even impress him much less the curators that could be putting his work on exhibit. His husband Bram has moved out of their apartment and into Arnold’s studio (considering that it isn’t being used anyway), giving Arnold the space he needs to get his act together.

As the narrative progresses, the opening of their lines of communication mirrors the gradual revelation of the stage itself. The lighting design by Stacey Derosier subtly illuminates more of the set, crafted by the design collective dots. The stark, brutalist charcoal stucco walls evoke volcanic rock—an apt metaphor for the emotional landscape of the play, where past scars and repressed feelings are slowly uncovered. The evolving lighting not only serves to deepen the visual experience but also subtly tracks the characters’ attempts to bridge the chasm of their very fractured relationship. Ricky Renoso has the easier task of dressing these two men. Both look comfortable: one as if he just got out of his pick-up truck to run errands at the Piggly Wiggly, the other as if he would never wear sweats to answer the door. Thankfully they decided to not do quick changes when the actors play the characters’ spouses.

Lest we take stage design for granted, dots manages to insert an additional character unintentionally. While it may not have a word of dialogue, the trailer door crashing through the wall symbolizes Arnold’s abusive childhood forcefully intruding upon his present—an unrelenting memory that cannot be outrun, a persistent summons to return to a life he can never truly leave behind.

Sparks delivers a superb performance as Jerry, a man deeply rooted in his small-town origins yet existentially adrift, unable to navigate or articulate his emotions. His portrayal of a character ill-equipped to confront his inner turmoil is both compelling and heartbreaking. He admits to Arnold that after years of blocking out so much of his troubled youth he’s ready to offer that olive branch to have his half brother back in his life. “I’m not saying I’m a different person, but maybe I’m—not the same person?” It’s a sweet moment that captures us off guard. As both actors briefly take on other roles, Sparks seamlessly transitions from the ingratiating Jerry to someone strikingly steadfast as Arnold’s Dutch husband Bram in a tense emotionally charged confrontation. In a scene where Arnold seems borderline desperate to hold onto Bram, we never feel that Sparks navigates the need to change subject as a cool high road. It is tempered with genuine love in the midst of truths that bring the other character back to an uncomfortable reality. Bram’s argument—that familial ties endure, whether welcomed or not, and that Arnold must return to reconcile—carries a layered significance for both characters.

Meanwhile, Smith offers a nuanced performance as Arnold, whose outward defensiveness masks a profound vulnerability—a fear that there may be little of substance beneath the armor he’s built. Arnold’s self-image as an artist, which forms the core of his identity, may outstrip his actual artistic talents, adding a rich complexity to Smith’s portrayal. In any case, that creative ship has sailed. Unable to produce art pieces that satisfy him, Arnold’s frustration spills over, manifesting as an unfocused, all-consuming rancor. “Oh my God,” Bram exclaims, “it’s like shooting clay pigeons with you, I can’t keep track of your grievances!” Smith effortlessly shifts from the fiery intensity of Arnold to the calm, measured demeanor of Stacey, Jerry’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, in a quietly poignant exchange with Jerry, a harshness saturated in tough love. Their tug-of-war over childcare arrangements serves as a poignant and convincing metaphor for the deeper disconnect within their marriage.

The penultimate scene is a “split screen” again, with the somber duty of Jerry telling Arnold of their mom’s passing. “God, maybe this is—like, maybe this is exactly what I’ve been needing! I just needed to know I’m fucking free, I don’t need to spend any more time thinking about her. Because it’s done!…And I mean, this means the two of us, we probably don’t ever have to talk again! Right?! Like we can both just—walk away. We don’t share anything anymore, we can just—walk away. For good.” This is Arnold at his worst. He doesn’t care who he hurts with his meltdown. Sadly, Jerry deals with the funeral arrangements with the help of Stacey. There’s no thought to them getting back together but she can’t imagine her husband getting through this life event on his own.

On Arnold’s last “It’s done!” Jerry suddenly reaches out, grabbing Arnold’s arm. Arnold stops. They look at each other. They are, for the first time as Jerry and Arnold as we know them, in the same brutal scene (and time zone). Then, for the first time, a set is revealed: a life-sized diorama of the kitchen in the trailer where they grew up. Just as it might seem for a small child, it’s a daunting space to climb into. In reality, Arnold heeded the advice of Bram (still they too might not return to being together either) and came to Grangeville to be present and to be of help. Over the course of conversation, Arnold learns that his Dairy Queen closed and his nephew, Jerry’s son Tom, is gay.

This is one of a handful of moments that finds Arnold turning away to give himself a moment of emotional privacy (not an easy task in a cramped trailer of a hoarder). Jerry offers his olive branch – he gives Arnold an opportunity to hit him as a way of getting some of his own back at him. They tussle and fall to the floor breaking the legendary “Giacometti” their mom found at a yard sale. Kudos to fight director UnkleDave’s Fight-House for making two grown men in great shape look awkward, buffoonish and downright hysterical. It’s as heartwarming to watch as the very final tableau of Jerry letting Arnold win at a game of UNO…again.

Grangeville ultimately revolves around the fragile, strained bond of brotherhood—or, more accurately, half-brotherhood—and both actors excel in capturing the tender nuances of this dynamic. Their performances resonate with a delicate authenticity, portraying two damaged individuals tentatively reaching toward one another, aware that reconciliation may or may not be in their future. The emotional pull of their evolving connection is subtle, yet profoundly moving.

Grangeville (through March 23, 2025)

Signature Theatre

The Alice Griffin Jewel Box Theatre, Pershing Square Signature Center, 480 West 42nd Street, in Manhattan

For tickets, visit http://www.signaturetheatre.org

Running time: 90 minutes without an intermission