Bereavement is a lesson we all need to face at some point in life. Why does death separate us from our loved ones? How do we swallow the bitterness? How can we accept and cope with such loss? For 15-year-old Malia (Robyn Rose-Li), an emerging writer, she needs to find answers to these questions just as she learns how to write.
Written by Eric Holmes and directed by Christian Durham, with music composed by Nat Zegree, Fly More Than You Fall intends to explore the intricate emotions of grief, intertwined with writing as both a means of expression and therapy.
The cast is incredible. Broadway star Keala Settle, as Malia’s mother Jennifer, not only showcases her vocal ability but also depicts the loving nature of a dying mother, never losing faith in her family. Cavin Cornwall, as Malia’s father Paul, portrays fragility effectively alongside Rose-Li, shining especially in Act II when Malia strives to appear tough and “fine.” Eventually, the duo confronts their vulnerabilities and reconcile with themselves.
Structurally, Fly More Than You Fall prominently echoes A Monster Calls, where a 13-year-old boy, Conor, also grapples with his mother’s terminal illness. Instead of a monster in the form of a giant yew tree meant to help him confront his deepest fears and emotions, Malia writes about “Willow,” a wing-broken bird determined to conquer a mountain, magnificently portrayed by Maddison Bulleyment alongside a fellow bird Flynn (Edward Chitticks), who also bears broken wings.
However, while both stories hit the core of bereaved kids finding their own voices, Fly More Than You Fall lacks a strong connection between Malia’s grief and her cathartic writing. Why does her writing camp emoji-loving “pen-pal” Caleb (Max Gill) urge her to keep writing no matter what? What is the role of “writing” in Malia’s life, even long before the revelation of her mother’s fatality?
One night, Malia erupts in a heated quarrel with her parents, wanting to escape from her “family film nights,” instead meeting with Caleb and local peers. While her conflict with her dying mother and anxious, irritable father feels realistic and relatable, it comes off as somewhat petty, diverting from the story’s central messages. It is only in the final song of Act I that we learn the truth: Malia is terrified of losing her mother, and this fear drives her to keep running away. She cannot afford the price; her family is not her prison. She is her own prisoner.
Comparatively, Act II offers a clearer message: it’s okay not to force yourself to “move on” and to embrace vulnerability as well as recognise your emotions. In American culture that values toughness with low acceptance of weakness, this is a poignant reminder. Willow and Flynn symbolise various relationships, from Malia’s parents to her relationship with both Jennifer and Paul, conveyed through beautiful, harmonious duets. However, the point of writing as a visceral and emotional experience and its connection with bereavement remains unclear and awkward.
The dreamlike set designed by Stewart J. Charlesworth features an angelic bird made of writing scratches, and Jack Weir’s lighting transitions scenes swiftly with Sam Vincent’s melodic piano score. With such delicacy, Fly More Than You Fall is a well-crafted musical not lacking in its visuals but could benefit from exploiting its core message more profoundly.
