Josh, an alcoholic, is what standup jokesters dub a “stay-at-home son” though he no longer can lay claim to his home. On the heels of a blackout, and as dawn breaks, he comes to at the side of a reservoir. He accesses the home he’s been locked out of through a pet door. Confronted by an intransigent mother, Josh turns to his grandparents for succor, even as they negotiate a despair that comes with age. Barbara Kingsley plays Irene, Josh’s maternal grandmother. In the throes of dementia, she is the sherpa entrusted with the plot’s moral compass. I was able to interview Kingsley on Sept. 19, 2025, in the Berkeley Rep courtyard.
Toba Singer: What influenced you to pursue an acting career?
Barbara Kingsley: I grew up in a small rural town, Chillicothe, Illinois. After seeing a play that impressed me because it told a young people’s story in which there was no social hierarchy, no class or race distinction, no popular, not popular, my Speech and English teacher encouraged and coached me every step of the way. I didn’t know what an audition was. I stood on the stage’s proscenium at Illinois State, the only university I knew of, and read from “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.” I won a scholarship, was accepted into the Goodman School of Drama, now DePaul University Theater School. I finished my Bachelor of Fine Arts at the Illinois Conservatory of the Arts. I was so innocent, I didn’t even know how to take a bus.
TS: The Theater loves the innocent!
BK: That’s why Irene is such a special character.
TS: Describe the arc of your career as it advanced.
BK: Usually, the workaday actor doesn’t get to choose an arc, so it’s as if an arc found me. I spent 37 years in Minnesota (where husband Stephen D’Amrose is from) at the Guthrie, and other theaters. They’d say, “Barbara Kingsley, oh, she does comedy, or they’d say, “She’s a Lady Anne or Medea.” I taught at the University of Minnesota, and told students, “There’s no room for complaining. It will destroy your career. So, for every job, make a contract with yourself. Sometimes it’s just about the money. Sometimes, it’s a starring role that you’re dying to play. Honor whichever one with grace and gratitude.” Last year, I spent five months with American Players Theater in Spring Green, Wisconsin, at two outdoor theaters. No microphones, performing if it’s 52 degrees, raining, or the bugs are going crazy. As I age, I gravitate toward roles I’ve never done, or that challenge me in a new way, such as in “Ring Around the Moon,” [a 1950s adaptation by Christopher Fry of Anouilh’s “Invitation to the Castle.”] It was a tricky role: a wheelchair-bound rich woman. It offered no control over my own movement. She starts as a shallow person, then turns out to be pragmatic, wise, and kind. I liked that, and seeing whether I could still trudge uphill to perform in 95-degree weather. I’m going from rich ladies, to good wigs, to divas, to demented grandmas, to dumpster divers, and fake dead things. All bring something interesting.
TS: What distinguishes your character Irene from the others in The Reservoir?
BK: The obvious is she is Josh’s grandma and has dementia, and we see her in two scenes near the end of her life. His other grandparents explore in different ways. Irene is set out definitively, and I was concerned about how we give the audience permission to say it’s OK that she has this condition after the first scene where it is not yet apparent. Her alcoholic grandson Josh conjures us up. My assumption is that Irene exists on another leveled plane in which she’s real on some of the levels. But for her to have serious dementia and go back and actively participate and come out on the phone after she’s dead? What distinguishes her is that she doesn’t trouble herself with such existential questions. She goes through dementia with complete abandon.
TS: When we meet her, she’s upbeat, chirpy, hands fluttering, welcoming. Then comes that beat where she reveals her self-awareness. Later, she’s muted by the dementia, stock still and silent, but showing the struggle within. The Cuban ballet pedagogue Fernando Alonso observed about the famous Flamenco dancer, Antonia Mercé y Luque, known as “La Argentina”—that while standing perfectly still on the stage, she exuded intense energy. His words came back to me as I took in Irene’s commanding stillness. Another beat, and she’s back, “coasting on delight,” I wrote in my notes. Walk us through the “how” of creating the contradictory facets that catch and reflect Irene’s light.
BK: Don’t we all have them? Some protect them more than do others. Others are not even aware of them because they live in a safer place. She lives, oddly, where she’s willing to to take in every impulse, every piece that affects her and she leads with kindness. She’s careful not to hurt people, though occasionally they do hurt. She won’t lie to herself or anyone. I didn’t craft it so much as allow myself to live in neutrality, to see what it was, what would show up if I left myself open. Josh’s phone call comes after Irene is dead, right? He reimagines her in this call, just as we do. Then after the phone call, he calls her back! So, she’s got to respond. She knows it will be hard, that she’s not allowed to speak and has no lines until she returns as a ghost. It’s the conflict of you’re gone but you’re there, wanting to hold your husband Hank, having had a certified life that registers in your presence. The tug in it motivates and fuels her. You know your spirit is holding Josh. I’m also wanting to hold Hank. I have to be an empty slate. Every night, my character’s daughter, Josh’s mom, says to him, “I’ve finally come to peace with the fact that you’re probably going to die.” Taking it the way that it arrives means that all you can do as the spirit who believes there’s a deity who opens that pathway from Josh to whatever Irene’s idea of God is, is nothing. You can’t do anything except acknowledge that God took him.
The next beat comes when Josh’s boss yells at him. It’s every night, and scares me because she knows how vulnerable Josh is at this moment. That starts the setup for the next beat, when Josh finds his other (Jewish) grandpa, Shrimpy, devastated. Shrimpy makes it comic, but boy, when he has a moment where he says, “Don’t give up on me,” maybe it’s a plea for everyone who’s struggling.
TS: Irene knows how sensitive Josh is. But doesn’t she also know that for people who are unlike her, he drives them crazy?
BK: She can’t fix it. If she could respond to that question, she’d say that if Joshy gets the help he needs, you won’t find him. She lives with the belief in the greatest good that a human can locate within himself. When Josh goes to Shrimpy, who is Bev’s husband, there are no words for Irene, and the gift is in experiencing it. I said to Mike, our director, “Stop me if I get too active because I have been told in the past, that these arms are made for somebody who’s fighting.” During Hank and Josh’s exchange, she must face her husband Hank’s alcoholism, a hard one, with both drinkers present: Josh tells Hank that his mother had told him that Hank had been drinking on the day of the funeral. Josh had been drinking the night before and slept in, missing the funeral entirely. Hank’s rejoinder to Josh is, “Don’t come to my funeral.” Thank God Bev shows up with her version of hope.
TS: The Torah recitations in Hebrew by Josh and Shrimpy are outstanding. Is the actor who plays Shrimpy a Hebrew speaker?
BK: Though he doesn’t know Hebrew, he has been in most productions and was able to memorize it. Berkeley Rep’s is a deconstructed version. The others had roll-in/roll-out set pieces. There were numerous costume changes, and the grandparents were off-stage, not on. Mike’s decision may have been that he didn’t want this production made cumbersome, that it should stand on its own with its humanity. I didn’t see the Geffen or Denver productions, but I’d say this production is now living its best life because I see a future for it in many venues, some that aren’t theaters. There are important stories about sobriety, forgiveness, and inter-generational loss. Because we had babies late, our children are missing grandparents. With this particular production living its best life, it can go forward on its own two feet in simple ways that focus on that humanity. It’s not my job to judge. Asked about it, I’d say it is not the traditional well-constructed play. That’s a formulaic thing and I love how those plays wrap, but this play is the wave of the future, connecting younger people to theater. They have been raised in an entirely different environment from ours. They get ahead of stuff.
TS: That’s the generational dilemma, isn’t it? They get ahead of us and have stuff to teach us, but how able are we to learn it? Irene is expansive enough to breach that generational gap.
BK: She has her limitations, but is willing to hear, learn, and embrace the “what if?” at the same time that she’s afraid for anyone living in the place Josh inhabits.
TS: And so is nearly every audience member. I see us as living in the Thermidor of the 1776 Revolution, forcing us to recognize and honor the ground it broke even as we bump up against its glaring insufficiencies.
BK: My daughter Maggie wrote this to me in and about our daily Family Thread, “Well, it’s a dumpster fire out there, but love here is mighty nice.” We’re so bruised. I’m becoming much less so. Kindness often goes unrewarded, and yet, it’s all we have. At some point, we have to do something to protest. When she was younger, a member of my family called me out on it and said, “Can’t we just be people?” I said, “The [protest] work we did allows you to stand where you are and say, ‘Can’t we just be people?’” Part of me talks a good game. The other part is still incredibly naïve.
TS: That’s what’s at the heart of your character, Irene! Don’t you draw on that duality at the same time that it strikes you as asymmetrical? It’s a reservoir of contradictions that you drink from in each performance.
BK: You validate everything I have allowed myself to experience. Sometimes, I go home, and a tear is just going to come. You just have to sit with yourself, edit a poem you wrote, or get out the markers and do art. I have no idea whether she resonates. One shouldn’t watch the video. I keep in close contact with our stage manager, Elisa, and might ask, “Did you see the corn field scene?” or “Is that little transition still working?” She’ll tell me yes or no. She’s honest and might tell me that it’s working, but you could tighten it up, a hair, and I go, “OK. Alright.”
TS: What do you find yourself returning to from your acting training, a specific takeaway for those hungry to act?
BK: It’s the thing I said earlier: to make a contract with yourself, especially now more than ever. Tik Tok makes them think they’re going to be stars. That is the wrong place to put your money. If I can’t talk you out of it, I want to train you to become the actor I want to work opposite, and my standards are high! Realize that you are in service to everyone: the director, writer, designers, stage manager, crew, and audience, so it’s me and the audience out there. Never forget that they came here for this partnership. Do not judge them. Know when to be visible; when to be invisible. Be physically and vocally ready.
TS: What are the lessons learned from a challenging role or relationship with the director, writer, or other actor, which led you to find in yourself a quality that surprised you?
BK: We’re lucky with this team’s director, producer, and actors. It’s not always this fulfilling in process. Sometimes, I’ve found that what I thought was the ideal path to get to the character, wasn’t. How to bring a character to life is oftentimes less than ideal because of other things we might have to navigate. I’ve had to take humbling lessons to find my integrity. I’ve gotten better at advocating and being direct.
I once worked with a young director, very sure of himself, disinterested in others’ perspectives. We did a first run-through for one of the allied crafts. When we were done, in front of everyone present, he asked, “How do you think that went?” I made the mistake of speaking first. I said, “All things considered, I feel like we’re on the right path. I certainly know where the challenges lie.” He said, “You think so? I don’t know what you thought you were doing up there. I did not for a moment believe that you loved your daughter or your husband.” I thought, “You’ve been set up. He totally set you up. He hasn’t liked you from the beginning. Why?” My response was: “You may speak to me about what did work for you, specifics that don’t work for you, or questions that you have, or another path that I might investigate. You may not tell me that I don’t know what love of a husband and child is. I’ve been married to a man that I love for over 35 years. I gave birth to two human beings. I know what the love between a mother and a child is. So, you may not say to me “You don’t know what love is.” I learned that I had to quietly go inside to find the calm way of offering a gate at the bridge and the opportunity. When you walk away, do it with your integrity intact rather than a steaming cauldron. Some directors let you explore and say, “Yes, keep that,” or “Where were you when that happened?” or “OK, I understand why you made that choice. It’s less effective,” or “Yeah, let’s go for another thing.” In this production, it was the O Come All Ye Faithful scene. Initially, through the first previews, I approached it with the voice that she has in the demented present, not the full-bodied one the play starts with. As she ages, the throat narrows. Mike reminded me that the script says she was a choir director. Because at that point, she’s static, I was trying to invite both voices to participate so it would feel inclusive. He told me to hold a note for a really long time. It got a lot of laughs and applause. The night of the third preview, I noticed him conferring with the playwright. He then came and asked me to change how Irene is channeled, to think of it as the deepest, most simple place that exists within her. She’s truly being moved, and her body is no longer a problem for her in producing the song. I took it like I have egg on my face—”I just did two shows, and you’re telling me now? Do you want to tell me anything more?” He said that I should just try it on. That’s a level of trust, but also a level of hurt because there’s another actor who’ll spend 25 minutes telling him why they need to do it their way. I never thought that was my first job. The first job, as my husband who is an actor says, is, “It works or doesn’t work. Don’t try to sabotage it.”
TS: Talking won’t make it work if it doesn’t.
BK: You’r right. Well, what they didn’t know is that in Catholic school, I didn’t know how to sing. I’m vulnerable when I sing. I’m deaf in one ear. I don’t know if I’m going to reach the notes. I feel naked when singing that song. It’s terrifying. I did the show and managed to bring it to the lower register, find my way in, and my way out. Finding in and out are two very different things. That night, I thanked Mike for his patience and told him that I knew it would take me a while to figure it out. I thanked him for trusting me with it and allowing me to find my way there. I emailed him, “Let me know if we’re headed in the right direction.” He didn’t answer. He said he didn’t see it until the next day.
TS: And so you’re like crazy for 24 hours?
BK: I’m like, “The man hates me, and now thinks I’m a needy pig,” because we go to those places. We serve our vulnerability. The next day he said, “I am so sorry.” He said that it must have been a rough night. “I didn’t see this until now. Thank you for making that adjustment. I think this is where we want to go.” And now I’m OK.
TS: I struggled with the Jewish religious overlay because, except for in the excellently directed and acted Second Bar Mitzvah scene, the language didn’t ring true. It felt cut and pasted from what the (anti-) social media stoops to sell as low-hanging Jewish gemütlich. Then it turns out that the reliable there-for-me kindly grandparents have got their “eigena tsuris” [own troubles] as we say in Yiddish, coupled with their anger brand.
BK: Joshy’s approach to the facts is that they’re his grandparents who love him. Because they’re there in the solid way that his mother is not, they’re the source he can drink from, his reservoir. Here’s a quote from Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot,” to share: “The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else, another stops.”
Toba Singer
