3 stars
Morrie Schwartz was in his 70s when he was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, the fatal neurological disease that slowly immobilizes its quarry, killing the nerve cells that send vital signals to the muscles. A beloved, retired sociology professor at Brandeis University outside of Boston, Schwartz caught the attention of Ted Koppel, host of ABC’s nighttime news show, “Nightline.” In fact, Koppel dedicated his final show in 2005 to a re-airing of his 1995 visits with Schwartz, who died that year. It aired on a Tuesday, naturally.
Over his decades-long tenure at Brandeis, Schwartz had taught some notable students, Angela Davis, Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin among them. Chances are you already know this. Because Morrie played titular sage to a driven sportswriter by the name of Mitch Albom (a former student) in the bestselling “Tuesdays With Morrie.” Albom’s memoir of their time together was adapted into a TV movie (starring Jack Lemmon and Hank Azaria) and a play by Jeffrey Hatcher and Albom.
If you go
“Tuesdays With Morrie.” Written by Jeffrey Hatcher and Mitch Albom. Based on the book by Albom. Directed by Billie McBride. Featuring Antonio Amadeo and Chris Kendall. Through Nov. 24 at the Cherry Creek Theatre in the Mizel Arts and Culture Center’s Pluss Theatre, 350 S. Dahlia. Cherrycreektheatre.org or 303-800-6578
When Cherry Creek Theatre’s warm, welcome production of “Tuesdays with Morrie” begins, the younger man and his former professor are trading memories. Portrayed by Antonio Amadeo, Mitch recounts that Morrie loved to dance. To one side of the Pluss Theatre’s intimate black-box stage, Chris Kendall’s Morrie does a tango, then a foxtrot and then, well it’s not quite clear. But whatever move he’s busting, he does it with aplomb.
Morrie, too, shares memories. As Mitch sits in a chair across the stage with the practiced slouch of youth, Morrie recalls that on day one of his class, Mitch got up and headed for the door, hoping to drop the course. Fortunately for all of us who’ve learned from Morrie’s insights about the things that truly matter, he didn’t. “After that first class, I enrolled in another and another,” says Mitch. “He practically lived in my office,” Morrie adds.
It was the best kind of accident that found Albom cycling through TV channels when he came across Koppel talking with his old professor. It has been 16 years since he graduated college. He’d given up the dream he once shared with Morrie of being a jazz pianist. But he was living what others would call “the dream” covering sports. At the time he reached out to Morrie, he was writing for the Detroit Free Press (where he remains a columnist).
Albom went to visit his favorite professor. A newspaper strike afforded him another visit and then another, and then he began making a habit of the Tuesday visits. And, with a tape recorder in tow, he crafted a new syllabus for a course on living taught by professor Morrie Schwartz — or as Mitch tagged him, “Couch.”
The play’s opening salvo of Morrie and Mitch moving about the stage establishes a fine, if fleeting, physical parity between the two characters. There was a time when Morrie wasn’t confined to the armchair in his study. Even so, their minuet of memories underscores that this will be a story they both share.
Often pacing the stage, Amadeo gets at Albom’s drive, his restless ambition and, yes, his muted yearning for meaning. From his armchair residence, Kendall’s performance reminds audiences that while Morrie is increasingly immobilized, he maintains an agile wit and continues to whet a formidable wisdom.
An upright piano sits off to one side of the stage. Morrie’s study is front and center. Occasional projections — of a classroom, a sun-dappled autumn day (the sort that New England’s good at dishing out) — appear on twin panels hanging above the stage. But it is the dual images of colorful trees, subtly shedding blossoms and leaves over the course of the play that mark Morrie and Mitch’s existential season together.
Sunday’s matinee was mostly populated by audience members closer to Morrie’s age, or exceeding it. How might they be feeling about that? How did the age cohort south of 70 feel about Mitch’s tussle with wants over needs, with professional achievement seemingly at odds with personal growth?
While Morrie’s increasing frailty may cut close to the bone for the former, it’s the duo’s grace — as teacher and student, as seeker and master, parent and ostensible child, as friends — that offers lessons regardless of age or health.
The play doesn’t come close to the book’s deep, humanist magic. But directed by local acting ace Billie McBride and buoyed with the work of two generous performers, Cherry Creek’s “Morrie” offers plenty of timely observations and wise pleasures. Consider the 90-minute play a loving respite from the noise-box we currently are living in.
