Theatre in Review: My Joy is Heavy (New York Theatre Workshop)My Joy is Heavy brings back the musical diarists, Shaun and Abigail Bengson, for update on their spiritual journey. Previously, Hundred Days explored a crisis, early in their marriage, while The Lucky Ones recalled Abigail's upbringing in a family scarred by mental illness and trauma. The new piece is their COVID memoir, featuring them holed up in the Vermont farmhouse where Abigail grew up. With them are their toddler, Louie, and Abigail's mother, Kathy. "I was one of the lucky ones who spent lockdown in their terrifying, untouched childhood bedroom," Abigail notes, joking, sort of. Added to the stress of that fraught time, Shaun and Abigail are trying to fulfill a video commission, which, one imagines, is their only source of income, since their performing careers are on hold. Like most kids his age, Louie is a handful who needs constant managing; he is also steadfastly resisting toilet training. Shaun and Abigail's daily work time is limited to the 1-3pm time slot, when Kathy, Abigail's mother, is on grandma duty, "every day that her health allows." The pair faces this difficult situation with their usual wry, understated humor. "People romanticize New England winters, but in my experience, it feels less Norman Rockwell and more Donner Party," Abigail says, a thought confirmed by David Bengali's projections of chilly, snow-strewn landscapes. Showing a picture of Kathy, Shaun says, "This is her telling me she put wet cat food on my pillow cause turns out, that's where the cat likes to eat." Being The Bengsons, however, they envision their new piece as being "about joy," never mind that the feeling is noticeably scarce. The project is an even heavier lift because of Abigail's health. "I have all these symptoms," she says. "I mean pain, dizziness, loss of mobility, and they keep getting worse, and no one can tell me what's going on. The only thing I have been diagnosed with is PTSD, which is the miraculous ability to travel through time, but only to the worst moments of your life. But that doesn't really cover it." With her often sidelined in bed, Shaun, who also struggles with depression, must care for both his wife and son. This is the moment when they decide to have another child. My Joy is Heavy is alive to the absurdities of this situation. Abigail's doctor classifies her case as a "geriatric pregnancy," a term that must alarm any woman over thirty. As months drag by with no success, Abigail can't help comparing herself to Kathy, who "just fell pregnant the moment she wanted to be pregnant, and then had four healthy babies, no NICUs, no stitches, like a human Pez dispenser." Abigail is also assailed by darker thoughts: Louie, she says, is "not gonna know me. Cause I'm not anybody. I'm just this body that lays in that dark fucking room...I'm so afraid I'll scare him. And we think we can have another baby?" We're meant to think this is her depression talking. But maybe it's the voice of reason. The rest of My Joy is Heavy follows the Bengsons as they grapple with anxiety and profound disappointment yet ultimately choose to embrace happiness. It's a lovely sentiment, yet, under the circumstances, not entirely convincing. Aside from the tyranny of Abigail's biological clock, their pursuit of a second child -- during a pandemic, their careers stalled, Abigail frequently hobbled by physical pain -- could stand further examination, to say the least. The show's eleventh-hour ode to joy can be seen as hard-won, following much suffering, or a simplistic gesture born out of wishful thinking. It may be that this time out, the duo's songs don't carry enough weight. Abigail's vocals are as unearthly as ever, as she wails, "I've shed my old skin/But I don't have a new one." She movingly describes the pain of miscarriage, calling for someone to 'hold me the shatter of a life/In the cracking of a tiny goodbye." Other numbers curdle into whimsy: Shaun, recalling his religious upbringing, claims, "I really thought that if I just/Blew on a girl/Blew on a girl/Blew on a girl/Blew on a girl/She'd catch a case of the babies." The lyric is repetitious and coy. Some of them peddle dubious notions: "Maybe health and a healthy body and a healthy mind are not/Prerequisites for happiness/Maybe we don't have to wait till we're better to start living/The lives we want to live." These are strange words coming from someone taking medication for serious depression, a state that can hardly be waved away. On the plus side, their music remains striking, and the onstage band is aces. Rachel Chavkin's staging nimbly juggles various elements, including Lee Jellinek's farmhouse set (a combination of unfinished building frames and furnishings); Bengali's projections (which include lots of real-life video footage); Alan C. Edward's lighting, which makes good use of side positions to carve out the stars; and Nick Kourtides' sound design, which remains admirably clear and present, even when the musicians march through the house. Costume designer Hahnji Jang shows a familiarity with the standard lockdown wardrobe of baggy sweaters and torn jeans. By now, the Bengsons have built a following that, I imagine, is eager for the latest chapter of their story. Others will find their writing, best described as intimate yet evasive, off-putting. There are many sharp observations in My Joy is Heavy, but the uplift on offer can feel oddly generic. Maybe it's because these artists are beginning to repeat themselves; this is the third time we've seen them learning to smile through their tears, and it is, arguably, the least effective. --David Barbour 
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