No curtain call for grief: The power of collective mourning in theatre

Art has always been a way to process emotions which seem unfathomable. A visual representation of that which seems so far removed, intangible even. Theatre is essential in ensuring audiences are not desensitised to feats which they believe they are ‘safe’ from, such as disease and warfare.

Our age of constant connectivity has meant the emotional gap between strangers has never felt smaller. The ability to feel empathy and grieve for those you don’t know is no longer just an option but, in many ways, essential. This is where ‘therapy theatre’ finds its power. Plays and musicals can transport audiences in time to understand the nuances of the human experience. Healing, as portrayed on stage, should not be seen as a fixed goal but as a subjective, liminal process. Thus, there need not be a completely resolved denouement, the stereotypical ‘happily ever-after’. These plays instead embrace the ambiguity that comes alongside navigating loss and the consequences of trauma.

A musical which encapsulates the ideal of collective grief is William Finn’s Falsettos, which follows Marvin, Whizzer (his lover), and their relationship with Marvin’s ex-wife, Trina, alongside their extended family. Set during the late 1970s and continuing into the early 1980s, the musical overlaps with the rise of the Reagan Administration and the burgeoning AIDS crisis. The first act of the musical is not overtly focused on politics. Instead, the minimalist set, composed of grey blocks mirroring children’s toys, is used to emphasise the immaturity of all the characters and their relationships with each other. However, the gradual integration of realistic props (the hospital bed, table and chairs) is indicative of the rapid shift into the reality of the time, a time underpinned by panic and unease.

Where AIDS is often presented through metaphor or symbolism (see Tony Kushner’s Angels in America), Falsettos remains strikingly literal

The song ‘Something Bad Is Happening’, sung within Act Two, marks the musical’s first direct reference to the crisis, with lyrics like “Something very bad is happening / Something stinks, something immoral”.  Over 100,000 men died due to AIDS, an issue exacerbated by the government’s refusal to admit there was a serious medical crisis. This apathy was deeply rooted in homophobia and religious conservatism, which framed the epidemic as punishment due to the ‘transgressions’ of these men. However, Falsettos differs from other examples of contemporary queer theatre. Where AIDS is often presented through metaphor or symbolism (see Tony Kushner’s Angels in America), Falsettos remains strikingly literal. This makes the audience’s emotional attachment even stronger, providing the audience with no reprieve or euphemism.

The family unit within Falsettos transgresses from the conventional heteronormative ideal of the nuclear family, but this does not stop the depiction of family love and collective grief. Trina’s song ‘Holding to the Ground’ epitomises this, including lyrics such as: “Trying not to care about this man who Marvin loves/ but that’s my life/ he shared my life”. Indeed, the quartet ‘Unlikely Lovers’ highlights that grief has now become communal and family can be chosen, built on trust and solidarity.  This sentiment was extremely poignant to contemporary audiences as queer individuals usually faced ostracization from their families, thus finding comfort and support within the queer community. It is also significant that Dr. Charlotte is a close friend of Whizzer and Marvin, representing the pain and emotional devastation also experienced by caregivers – who are sometimes overlooked.

The audience grieves for the queer characters onstage as they represent those who suffered at the hands of a government who saw gay men as expendable, who continuously denied there was an epidemic, even in the face of gay men dying suddenly and for no discernible reason.  Falsettos still resonates with a modern audience as the themes of love and loss due to disease are still feats which they can relate to – despite the specifics altering.  It is vital that mourning is not confined to members of the LGBTQ+ community as individuals from all sexualities and backgrounds must be encouraged to grieve the loss of those who died within the AIDS crisis, ensuring the sidelining of queer individuals is not encouraged today.

A rectangular piece of the carefully constructed cube is removed and used to represent Whizzer’s gravestone – testament to the irreplaceability of those lost due to homophobia, ignorance, and institutional inaction.

Thus, Falsettos is an extremely intimate insight into the reality of queer individuals who did not receive a ‘happy ending’, contrasting the experiences of their heterosexual counterparts. The musical offers no sense of resolve at its conclusion with Mendel singing “Lovers come and lovers go / Lovers live and die fortissimo/ This is where we take a stand” and a rectangular piece of the carefully constructed cube is removed and used to represent Whizzer’s gravestone – testament to the irreplaceability of those lost due to homophobia, ignorance, and institutional inaction.

Indeed, Milk is an ode to the universality of grief and trauma – transcending language and cultural boundaries.

Another play which tackles themes of trauma, shock, and the path to healing is Bashar Murkus’ Milk. This play follows the strife and devastation of mothers grieving their children, using the symbol of milk to underscore the cruelty of war. In conflict zones, famine and deliberate starvation render the mothers unable to produce breast milk. Similarly, when their children are cruelly killed at the hands of war, milk changes from a symbol of life into a bitter reminder of what they have lost.  Interestingly, this performance has no spoken words, forcing the audience to ask themselves: what do you say to mothers who have lost their children? Are there any words to console or any words that will allow them to heal? Indeed, it is an ode to the universality of grief and trauma – transcending language and cultural boundaries. Moreover, Milk highlights a crucial absence in how war is remembered: women often being overlooked within the wider story of warfare, their words and stories dismissed in favour of sensationalist words and images. Depicting mothers giving birth to fully grown men, cradling them as if they were children is an uncomfortable yet striking image, necessary in allowing the audience to understand the depravity of the situation, and perceive that war does not just cause the loss of life but the loss of a personal and communal future.

This play proves increasingly appropriate with the ongoing conflict in Palestine where UNICEF has reported over 50,000 children being killed or injured, with the real number of deaths presumably higher than this estimated figure. Indeed, milk is scarce within Gaza as mothers are unable to produce breastmilk for their children, entrapping both mothers and children in a cycle of perpetual starving.

Theatre raises questions about the human psyche which are difficult, questions that we do not have the answers to yet: what are the long-term effects on the Palestinian children who survive, how do we rehabilitate children of warfare who have been exposed to violence inconceivable to many? Milk is a powerfully poetic embodiment of grief and trauma, forcing the audience into somatic empathy. Art used as the realisation that silence can speak louder than words ever could.

Theatre doesn’t just reflect trauma – it gathers it, holds it, and helps us carry it together.

The interesting dilemma when confronting pieces of so-called ‘therapy theatre’ is if they do more harm than good, whether visual representations of trauma are fair and even useful.  A debate which questions whether these performances of trauma are exploitative or cathartic.

The answer is resounding: yes.

It is the mark of brilliance to take something dark and painful and channel that emotion into something greater. To relegate themes like grief and shock into the shadows is to confirm that they do not have a place within the conversation, a conversation which is vital to growth and understanding in communities. Appreciating that although some traumas will stick with us forever and that artistic representation of them is not a symbol of their destruction, these plays help us to understand how to use our grief and trauma to build rebuild and reflect on our own lives, ideology, and the complicity in silence. Theatre doesn’t just reflect trauma – it gathers it, holds it, and helps us carry it together.