Keith Johnson, Anne Gridley, and Alex Gibson in Watch Me Walk. Photo: Maria Baranova

Anne Gridley’s Watch Me Walk–presented by Soho Rep as part of Under the Radar–is, certainly, a classic autobiographical solo show (eagle-eyed readers will have noted in the credits that it in fact has a cast of three, so perhaps “solo show with backup singers” is more accurate–or, as the script calls them, “Adonises”). But this is no Spalding Gray sitting at a table telling stories–though there’s a bit of a feint to that at the beginning, with what Anne, seated in a chair, calls “pulling an FDR”: “If people meet me on Zoom,” she says, “they have no idea I’m disabled. This could be just a fireside chat.” Yes, the story comes from Gridley’s own life with such blazing specificity that when asked who would play her in the movie version of this play, she can’t think of anyone. That life has included a lot of hardship, much of it, for her and other family members, at the hands of the shitshow we Americans call a health care system, given a family history going back at least three generations of hereditary spastic paraplegia. (Her grandmother called it simply “the disease.”) We hear about all this “awful shit that’s happened” and also the beauty of her mother’s poetry. And we will spend a lot of time–an intentionally uncomfortable amount of time–doing what the title promises: watching her walk back and forth across the stage, analyzing and defining the features of her gait with the help of a slide show. We will also watch her fall–as she says, she’ll let us know if she’s actually not fine.

But don’t get too hung up on “autobiographical.” Watch Me Walk is, definitely and sometimes defiantly, a SHOW, directed by Eric Ting with exactly the right ratio of stripped-down sincerity to manic glitz. Gridley’s own roots as an artist are in avant-garde ensemble work, much of it with Nature Theater of Oklahoma; this show begins and ends with audio recorded for (but not used in) their show No Dice–telephone conversations between artistic director Pavol Liska and Gridley’s mother, Terri. We get slideshows (video and sound by Tei Blow) on a range of topics medical, genealogical, and familial. Watch Me Walk is dotted with musical numbers, some earnest, some deliriously cheesy, some both: “I’m just an orphan with an orphan disease,” she sings, dressed as Angry Orphan Annie, in a song that begins by referencing the deaths of both her parents and goes on to explain how medical research on her condition is unprofitable because it affects very few people. The Adonises, Alex Gibson and Keith Johnson (Gibson also wrote some of the songs) serve as backup singers, chorus, and dance partners; they’re environment more than character, but they’re essential. (As is the stage crew, who are seen more often than usual and who join the curtain call. It’s a lovely gesture to remind the audience of how much unseen labor goes into even a show that’s on the surface simple–and it also strikes me as a quiet metaphor for the way disability surfaces the myriad of systems that remain invisible as long as one sails through the world abled.) The muscularity, height, and fluidity of movement of the Adonises form a visual contrast to the slight Anne with her not-entirely-controllable physicality–but when they all move together (choreography by Asli Bulbul), the results are beautiful. 

They are also occasionally terrifying. On the topic of “falling”–see above–there’s a breathtaking bit involving a ladder and a trust fall that in one action managed to make me think about, in no particular order: fear for the frailty of the human body, unconscious biases about the disabled human body, awe at the strength of the human body, awe at the human capacity for trust, and the element of fear at the unpredictable that is inherent to live theater. Anne says, “Being disabled always includes an element of chance,” and this moment reminded me strongly that so does theater.

Lux Haac’s costumes bridge the poles of the piece, going from ordinary streetwear (with a different slogan T-shirt for each performance) to a Disney-princess-esque ballgown made of caution tape reading “fall risk” to a three-dimensional padded motor neuron suit in cartoon colors–but always include the rose-adorned combat boots that Anne finds more useful than the custom foot and ankle orthotics that cost her $7,000.  

Speaking of orthotics, the show also functions as an extremely effective, acid-tinged PSA, including a PowerPoint of terms related to Anne’s disability and disability in general; a lesson on how not to talk to a disabled person; a tour of her arsenal of mobility aids–including a slideshow of her wardrobe of walking sticks and an onstage demonstration of her Alinker walking bike–and their costs; and musical numbers about ableism and the ways cultures throughout recorded history have marginalized and maltreated their disabled citizens. (The latter is a gentle singalong number performed by Alex Gibson.) In this context, it’s worth noting that the show, commissioned shortly after Soho Rep entered its space-sharing partnership with Playwrights Horizons, would not have been possible in Soho Rep’s previous home, which had copious accessibility issues. 

That Watch Me Walk does all this without ever getting preachy—and without letting Anne’s straightforward acknowledgment of her circumstances be swamped by the greater griefs underneath—is due to both Gridley’s stripped-down clarity as a performer and director Eric Ting’s control of the piece’s tonal shifts. The acerbity, the sincerity, and the big splashy theatricality don’t always interface smoothly, but I think that’s kind of the point–“smooth” isn’t something to expect, certainly not something to aspire to. One of the reasons ableism is pernicious is precisely because it assigns moral value to ease of execution. Watch Me Walk isn’t simple; neither is Anne Gridley’s life.