If you’ve ever sat through a production of The Moors Jen Silverman wrote back in 2017, you know that moment. The one where the Victorian lace starts looking less like "period accuracy" and more like a straightjacket. Honestly, it’s a trip. You go in expecting a polite Brontë sisters pastiche—maybe some wind-swept pining and a cough or two—and you leave having watched a Mastiff have a philosophical crisis while a woman in a corset prepares to bash someone’s head in.
It is weird. It is brutal. And it is incredibly funny in a way that makes you feel a little bit bad for laughing.
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The play isn't just about "the moors" in a geographical sense. It’s about the landscape of the brain when it’s been left alone in the dark for too long. Jen Silverman didn't just write a play about two sisters in a big house; they wrote a manifesto on what happens when women are told they have no power, so they decide to just invent their own—at any cost.
What is The Moors Jen Silverman Actually About?
Basically, the plot kicks off when Emilie, a governess who is way too optimistic for her own good, arrives at a crumbling manor. She thinks she’s been hired to teach a child and marry a handsome man named Branwell. Spoiler: There is no child. And Branwell? He's... well, he's "indisposed."
Instead, Emilie finds two sisters, Agatha and Huldey. Agatha is the one you’d be scared to meet in a dark alley (or a well-lit parlor). She's cold, calculated, and runs the house like a prison warden. Huldey is the opposite—desperate for fame, obsessed with her diary, and slowly losing her grip on reality.
Then there's the dog.
Yes, a literal Mastiff. He’s depressed. He wanders the house pondering the nature of God and love. He eventually falls for a Moor-Hen, which sounds like the setup for a joke, but it’s actually the most heartbreaking part of the whole script. Their relationship serves as a mirror to the humans: a cycle of longing, misunderstanding, and inevitable violence.
The Weirdness of the Setting
One of the coolest things about this play is how it treats the house. Every room is the same room. Seriously. The script specifies that whether the characters are in the parlor, the scullery, or a bedroom, the furniture doesn't change. It’s a brilliant way to show that in this house, there is no escape. You’re always in the same box, just with a different name.
Why the Brontë References Matter
If you’ve read Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights, you’ll catch the nods. The "mysterious man in the attic" trope gets flipped on its head. The "hapless governess" isn't saved by a brooding hero. Instead, she has to figure out how to survive a house full of women who are tired of being invisible.
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Silverman has mentioned in interviews that they were struck by Charlotte Brontë’s letters—specifically how isolation shaped her internal world. The moors aren't just a place; they're a permission slip. When you’re that far away from society, the rules don’t apply. You can be a monster if you want to. Or a god.
The Power Dynamics (and the Blood)
This isn't a "nice" play. It deals with some heavy stuff:
- Visibility: Every character is desperate to be seen. Huldey wants to be a famous writer. Agatha wants to be the master of her own destiny. The Mastiff wants someone to know he exists.
- Class and Identity: There’s a maid who changes her name (and personality) depending on which room she’s in. Marjory in the parlor, Mallory in the scullery. It’s a biting look at how we treat "the help" as interchangeable parts rather than people.
- Queer Desire: The relationship between Agatha and Emilie is thick with tension. It’s not a sweet romance; it’s a power struggle. It’s about seduction as a form of control.
By the time the third act rolls around, things have gone completely off the rails. There is a murder. There is a lot of blood. And there is a rock song.
I’m not kidding. Huldey ends the play with a literal power ballad. It’s the moment she finally gets the "audience" she’s been craving, and it is as disturbing as it is triumphant.
The Critical Reception: Love it or Hate it?
When the play premiered off-Broadway with the Playwrights Realm, critics were... split. Ben Brantley at the New York Times found it intriguing but a bit "whimsical." Others, like Helen Shaw, felt the tone was too confused—shifting from silly to cruel too fast.
But honestly? That’s kind of the point. Life in total isolation is tonally confused. You laugh because it’s absurd, and then you shiver because you realize the person next to you is holding a knife. Since its debut, the play has become a staple for regional theaters and universities. It’s a "designer's dream" because you can go wild with the gothic aesthetic while keeping the set minimal.
Why You Should Care About This Play Now
In a world where we’ve all experienced some form of forced isolation recently, The Moors Jen Silverman feels weirdly prophetic. It’s about what happens to your brain when the walls start closing in.
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It’s also a masterclass in subverting expectations. It takes the Victorian "woman in trouble" trope and asks: "What if the woman is the trouble?"
Actionable Insights for Theater Lovers
If you're planning to see a production or—even better—put one on, here’s the deal:
- Don't play it for laughs. The humor comes from the deadpan delivery of absolutely insane lines. If the actors "wink" at the audience, the tension dies.
- Focus on the Dog. The Mastiff/Moor-Hen B-plot is the emotional heart. If that doesn't land, the play is just a bunch of people being mean to each other in corsets.
- Watch the Costumes. Usually, productions use a mix of Victorian silhouettes with modern edges (think Doc Martens under a hoop skirt). This reinforces that the themes are contemporary, even if the clocks are set to 1840.
The play ends not with a resolution, but with a takeover. The "weak" have become the strong, and the cycle of the moors begins again. It’s a dark, messy, gorgeous piece of writing that stays with you long after the final chord of Huldey’s song fades out.
If you’re looking for a play that challenges how you think about gender, power, and the terrifying necessity of being "seen," this is it. Just... maybe don't bring your dog.
Next Steps for Deepening Your Understanding:
To truly grasp the layers of this work, you should read Jen Silverman's other plays, like Collective Rage: A Play in Five Betties, which explores similar themes of female identity with even more absurdist humor. Additionally, revisiting the letters of Charlotte Brontë provides the foundational context for the "isolation" that Silverman so effectively deconstructs in the script. Finally, looking up production photos from the 2017 Playwrights Realm run can give you a visual sense of how the "same room" staging functions in practice.