‘The Birds’ @ Amphibian Stage

Photo by Evan Michael Woods

—Jan Farrington

“Don’t go out!”
“After you’ve killed someone, you think: ‘That was easy.’”
“No hard feelings.”

It isn’t usual to begin a review with the play’s sound design. But all the same, I’m doing it.

Sound guru David Lanza grabs us by the throats even before the lights come up on The Birds at Amphibian Stage. Conor McPherson’s gripping play hasn’t begun, and we’re already jittery and disoriented from the squeaking, squealing, whooshing, violin-shredding noise filling our ears in the almost-dark. The sounds are semi-melodic at moments, but the rest is chaos. Metal drums against metal, dull and flat. Wood creaks, and if we didn’t know the title of the play, we’d be at a loss to identify that other sound: the rustling, the flapping, the crowding against the walls.

When the lights go up and we begin to know the characters, Lanza’s soundscape remains a vital “other” presence onstage, one that informs and enriches the drama playing out. It’s a master class we’re experiencing during this intense 90-minute show.

Never fear, though: McPherson’s strong story matches the soundscape in its eerie power to disturb, frighten, and surprise us. A woman is alone in a wood-walled cabin. Then we see, in a corner, someone curled in fetal position, covered by a quilt, whimpering and shaking.

She is Diane (Sarah Gay). He is Nat (Philip Matthew Maxwell). Somehow we assume this is her house. It isn’t—but she got there first. He’s been attacked and terrified by the birds outside (we know it’s the birds, we grew up on Hitchcock) and Diane has rescued him. Sarah sponges Nat’s face, and tells him he’s slept for two days.

The world outside the cabin is falling to pieces—each of them tells the other what bits of “news” they’ve heard, and what they’ve seen. A town called St. Thomas might still have food … someone was killed at the gas station … Nat goes out, but comes back with candy, not real food. They aren’t comfortable around each other, but Nat says: “This is the new way of living. We take care of each other.”

A young woman comes to the door. Julia (Monica Jones), who tells a fragmented story about her last weeks, spent hiding in a classroom, moving with one group and another. She tells fortunes and reads the Bible: “A wise person thinks about death,” she quotes. Diane doesn’t warm to Julia’s playful, religious, slightly flirty vibe. Nat is fragile, trying to hold things together, apparently in the wake of some mental health troubles in the past. Diane, a writer who’s older than both of them, seems to be (or needs to be) the group’s rock: she is tough, decisive, sharp-eyed.

As the days pass, the need for food (and information) obsesses them. Julia has come back with a box of random items: pound cake, wine, mis-labeled cans. Now Nat and Julia go out together, though the danger of scavenging (everyone still alive is out there competing) grow more serious by the day. And while they’re gone, Diane has a shivery encounter with a fourth person, the tightly smiling, revoltingly practical Tierney (Greg Holt), who makes her an offer—and gives her some facts about her companions she’ll need to think over. Who can be trusted?

McPherson doesn’t forget the “macro” side of this microcosm he’s created. In this new world, where is kindness? What is the human obligation to other people as resources shrink and it’s impossible to tell who’s “for real” and who’s pretending to not be an axe murderer? If society has fallen apart, what sort of world will we re-create—or begin anew, with fresh ideas? This anxiety runs like an electric current under the day-to-day predicaments of the characters.

Director Jay Duffer keeps both threads going, finds shoulder-tensing moments in the quietest of scenes—and shifts tones subtly between scenes of domestic calm and imminent horror. Jeff Stanfield’s homey, cluttered cabin setting is very realistic, though one wall lets a seascape (or skyscape?) creep into the kitchen decor. Lighting designer Roma Flowers projects patterns of lights in repeated rows—coming through the chinks of the cabin’s wood-slat walls. They’re beautiful, but also a hint at how vulnerable these people are to the predators outside. And though the story doesn’t allow for many wardrobe changes, Hope Cox’s choices are nicely character-driven, with a “dress up” episode that’s charming.

The Birds was originally a short story from the mid-century British writer Daphne Du Maurier, set along the coast of Cornwall where she lived. Hitchcock adapted it to the Pacific Coast of Northern California, and widened the lens to show events around the small town. McPherson’s play harks back to Du Maurier’s story with its more “contained” plot.

The Birds—beautifully acted by the cast of four, and enriched by Lanza’s extraordinary sound—is a play that will keep your heart thumping.

WHEN: October 17-November 9, 2025
WHERE: 120 South Main Street, Fort Worth
WEB: amphibianstage.org