Still Alice

adapted by Christine Mary Dunford from the novel by Lisa Genova

seen at the Liverpool Playhouse on 9th November 2018

David Grindley directs Sharon Small as Alice, Eva Pope as 'Herself' and Martin Marquez as her husband John with Mark Armstrong as their son Thomas, Ruth Ollman as their daughter Lydia, Anna Andresen as Dr Tamara and Micah Balfour as Dr Davis in a production from Leeds Playhouse currently touring.

Alice suffers from early-onset Alzheimer's disease, her dementia taking the classic form of struggling for words and repeating questions, then escalating to more severe forms of forgetfulness. Initially, as is so typical, the symptoms are brushed aside, but eventually they are too marked to be ignored, and a diagnosis ensues. Alice and John are both academics, she working in the field of linguistics, and he in scientific research, and so they are well-informed and perfectly capable of adopting whatever coping strategies are recommended; John is even sufficiently aware to propose certain forms of treatment not yet  widely available (though the novel was published in 2007, this stage adaptation begins in mid-2015 and finishes 'today', as the dateline preceding each major scene informs us).

The disease is relentless, of course, and at present incurable, so we can only witness Alice's decline and the increasing anguish, confusion and tension in her family. Indeed, the family dynamics are as important to the drama as the disease itself, since the daughter Lydia is initially estranged through having walked away from academia to pursue an acting career (much to her mother's disgust) while their son Thomas, dutifully climbing the ladder in his legal profession, resents his absent sister and perhaps recognises that even perfect dutifulness will never grant him adequate favour with his parents. Curiously, as Alice's condition worsens, she becomes somewhat closer to Lydia and less happy with her well-meaning but not particularly empathetic son.

The technical problem of revealing the toll of Alzheimer's on the sufferer is brilliantly addressed by having two actors representing Alice. Sharon Small is the Alice the outside world sees, faltering, frustrated and increasingly frightened and trammelled by the disease. Eva Pope is 'Herself', an inner voice still articulate, forthright, and protective, though increasingly powerless to help. This device is a salutary reminder that a person suffering from Alzheimer's is most likely aware of the situation, angry at being patronised by otherwise loving people and incensed at being discussed as if absent or incapable of thought. 

The progress of the disease is also marked by the increasing bareness of the stage. To begin with various rooms in the house are indicated by the presence of furniture, especially in the kitchen, but also there are indications of a living room and a home office. The furniture is moved around to suit various different scenes (for example in a consultant's room), but gradually items when moved are not moved back, until finally there are only two deck chairs on the stage. Its a visual metaphor which was also used very powerfully in Florian Zeller's play The Father for a similar purpose.

The performances were excellent, especially those by the two Alices; the balance between her personal disintegration and its effect on other members of the family ias an important part of what the playwright and director (and presumably the novelist) wished to convey; arguments about what to do about care, or how best to encourage the attempt to retain short term memory, are both poignant and painful to contemplate. Alice relies for as long as possible on diary entries in her phone to keep track, an idea which Lydia instinctively supports but Thomas thinks a dangerous crutch. Alice by this stage is in one sense oblivious but 'Herself' remarks pragmatically 'They're upset. They seem to be arguing about you.'

Alice, used to public speaking as a lecturer, is invited to speak at a dementia conference and manages to do so, as luckily it is for her a (comparatively) good day. I had some reservations about this, though such an engagement would be plausible before the disease had taken too much hold. There was just a slight sense that the whole enterprise of the play was doing its worthy best to cover all the bases; it is perhaps part of the modern - or is it specifically American? - tendency to address all problems by talking them through exhaustively.

It cannot end well; but John manages a note of resigned acceptance as his wife, now no longer recognising him, says that she likes being with him and asks if there is any need to go away. 'No. Take your time,' he says.