Ms. Horan gives a skillful performance as the uneducated Lara, who endures the derision of reporters as she tries to explain Henry to the public.
Adelind Horan is intensely watchable and conveys Lara’s restlessness and her simultaneous embrace and fear of what’s happening to her.
Horan carries off this complex role with amazing skill, her performance reminding me of Diane Keaton’s breakout performance in the Broadway version of Play It Again, Sam (for which she received a Tony nomination).
Horan’s Lara dominates the production.
And Horan is a pro, every step of the way. Each characterization is distinct and filled with detail, especially the astounding versatility of her voice. No matter your political stances, it’s hard to deny that Horan is a nearly flawless actor.
Horan’s impersonations are unstinting, with forthright young women, beleaguered middle-aged men and wise, sad old timers, all finding themselves perfectly inhabited.
It’s unapologetic agitprop and compelling drama in the same way that documentaries can make compelling movies. You learn something, and the human stories Horan shares put flesh on troubling facts.
Adelind Horan’s performance as the rowdy Helen particularly stuck out to me. Between her relentless jabs directly to Billy’s face and her maliciousness towards her brother, particularly in cracking eggs over his head, her character as written had so few redeeming qualities. Yet somehow, Horan takes that and, without losing any of the edge, somehow makes it endearing.
Adelind Horan digs right into the devilish Helen McCormick. Horan imbues the character with the spirit of an always-misbehaving 12-year-old, as well as a confidence in her womanly wiles.
Horan is a delight as the uncensored, uninhibited, fierce Helen who enjoys tossing eggs at people with little provocation and using her attractiveness to get what she wants from men. In a major coup, she subtly hints at a jealously guarded interior marked by a loneliness that she might not acknowledge to herself let alone anyone else.
Adelind Horan avoids the trap of turning Helen into a complete witch. Horan, whose Helen carries an air of frustration ready to be released, finds shades of humor and vulnerability in her character – making her someone with whom we can sympathize.
Adelind Horan captures Lara’s uncertain entrance into the art world, especially in a scene depicting her in a press conference where she strongly suspects she is being played for a fool. She also has a palpable chemistry with Kulz, adding a tingling, will-they-or-won’t-they edge to their scenes together.
A native of rural Virginia, Horan seems to know these people, accents, and mannerisms as well as she knows herself. After the show, I was inspired enough to go home and do a little research on the subject myself. That to me, more than just about anything else, is the mark of an excellent piece of thought-provoking theatre.
Adelind Horan brilliantly takes the stories of twelve real people whose lives have in some way been affected by mountaintop removal mining, and turns it into a mesmerizingly emotional piece of theatre. Slipping effortlessly from one character to the next, Horan unveils a story of exploitation and political frustration that is breathlessly moving in its intensity.
The show opens with two lovely performances from Adelind Horan and Alex Haynes, playing a couple of kids at cross purposes after school. To playwright Haley’s credit there’s a sweet Chekhovian feel to this scene, and the performers navigate the intricacies of it with finesse.
What do you get when you combine 13 real-life characters with one superb actress, a sold out venue, and an issue as compelling as mountaintop removal? In the case of Adelind Horan’s “Cry of the Mountain,” you get must see theatre.
Horan’s intimate stage-presence and pitch-perfect characterizations makes the solo acting work flawlessly.
Adelind Horan as Lara played the outsider card well. Her naivety and sincerity allowed for some of the softer notes of the play.
Adelind Horan as Jill was another bright spot of the evening. She owned the role.