“poor old Mary Jane”
Exploring Herzog’s ability to portray unwavering faith and loyalty in humans.
Monologues are among the most potent tools for character development and plot advancement in contemporary drama. When strategically written and placed, a character’s final monologue provides a moment of narrative catharsis—an avenue to articulate their deepest desires and achieve emotional resolution at the climax of their arc. Dramatic structure naturally builds pressure: as conflict escalates, the metaphorical balloon inflates, preventing the protagonist from obtaining what they want. When the pressure reaches its peak, the character breaks into monologue. They either burst under the weight of the moment or slowly deflate, stepping into the play's final resolution. A monologue representing a character's ultimate attempt to fulfill their objective releases this stored energy, shifting their trajectory entirely. For an audience, witnessing this release creates a profound emotional resonance that lingers long after the final curtain.
In Mary Jane, playwright Amy Herzog crafts a world defined by the relentless physical and emotional demands of chronic illness. Alex, born at twenty-six weeks, suffers from a daunting array of medical complications: he feeds through a G-tube, experiences frequent seizures, lacks cognitive receptors, struggles with sudden body temperature drops, and lives with paralyzed vocal cords. Yet, his mother, Mary Jane, endures an equal measure of physical and emotional turmoil as she fights to keep him alive. Throughout the play, Alex’s complete dependence appears to outside observers as an overwhelming daily burden. Meanwhile, Mary Jane wages a quiet, ongoing battle with debilitating migraines—a physical symptom exacerbated by the unacknowledged stress of her son’s condition. Herzog uses this dynamic to illustrate the immense depths of maternal love, juxtaposing Alex’s physical limitations with Mary Jane’s fierce, unwavering sense of devotion.
In the play's final movement, Mary Jane sits in a hospital waiting room wearing a white sanitary suit that gives her the appearance of a bunny. Tenkei, a Buddhist nun, joins her to offer quiet spiritual support while Alex undergoes a critical surgery. As a migraine begins to cloud Mary Jane's vision, Tenkei tries to distract her by asking about Alex. Notably, Herzog never places Alex fully on stage or within the audience's clear view. This deliberate staging choice transcends practical logistics: Herzog conceals Alex because the heart of the drama is not his physical impairment, but Mary Jane's internal journey as his caregiver.
MARY JANE: He's stubborn. Ha. He is such a stubborn kid. I get so mad at him. If he doesn't want to do something? Like say he doesn't want to sit in his wheelchair? If I try to put him in, he'll arch and squirm—I’m five times his size and he isn't supposed to have hardly any muscle control, but I'm telling you, if he doesn't want to sit I cannot get him in that damn chair. And I'm trying to be stern, but I'm laughing, and saying, “This is not funny, mister!” and he's laughing too… (Pause.)
He loves fish, of course. He loves our superintendent’s dog, Tricia, I bet he misses seeing her, He loves very cold things, I think he likes the feeling of extreme…sensory…he likes touching snow and ice. He likes seeing his breath in the winter.
If he does let me put him in his chair, he loves for me to run with him up and down the street as fast as I can go. People look at me like I'm crazy, like, "Is that safe? Is he supposed to be doing that?" But he just grins and grins.
He's almost three.
I don't know whether he's going to make it out of this surgery.
I don't know what to hope for anymore. (Pause.)
TENKEI: I see him very clearly. Thank you.
(Pause. Mary Jane smiles a little bit.)
MARY JANE: (Re: the aura.) ...It's closing in… They're very pretty actually, auras, they look like... computer-generated...what am I trying to think of? What's a snowflake?
TENKEI: What's a snowflake?
MARY JANE: It's a…an endlessly repeating…
TENKEI: A fractal?
MARY JANE: Yeah. A fractal (Long pause. With her eyes closed, she watches the aura morph and shimmer. It's unimaginably beautiful. She opens her eyes.) God. What a strange… (She looks for a word, then loses track of her search.)
TENKEI: Can you still see?
(Bright white light.)
Herzog positions this speech precisely at the narrative apex where its emotional impact is most acute. When Mary Jane recounts, “I’m five times his size and he isn’t supposed to have hardly any muscle control, but I’m telling you, if he doesn’t want to sit I cannot get him in that damn chair,” the audience witnesses the depth of her devotion. Though medical reality obscures Alex's personality from the world, Mary Jane sees his spirit with absolute clarity. She clings to his subtle cues and expressions to know him as a complete person: “And I’m trying to be stern, but I’m laughing, and saying, ‘This is not funny, mister!’ and he’s laughing too…” Even while managing the terrifying realities of his care, she actively chooses warmth over despair.
Earlier in the play, Mary Jane reveals that Alex suffered a mini-seizure while she was resting and one of his nurses, Donna, had dozed off, leaving him on his back and choking. The audience knows Alex cannot move independently, which makes Mary Jane's recollection of their joy all the more poignant: “If he does let me put him in his chair, he loves for me to run with him up and down the street as fast as I can go. People look at me like I’m crazy... But he just grins and grins.” By contrasting Alex's utter physical helplessness with Mary Jane's vibrant descriptions of his joy, Herzog exponentially raises the emotional stakes.
In this final scene, Mary Jane sits quietly for the first time as someone else extends care to her. There is no sensationalized meltdown or grand theatrical outburst. She simply voices her truth: “I don’t know whether he’s going to make it out of this surgery. I don’t know what to hope for anymore.” Tenkei responds with profound validation: “I see him very clearly. Thank you.” In this quiet exchange, Mary Jane achieves her fundamental objective: having someone else truly see Alex for who he is rather than as a collection of medical diagnoses. She does not weep; instead, Herzog offers the subtle stage direction: (Mary Jane smiles a little bit.) The audience experiences a moment of cathartic release within that small gesture. Just as Mary Jane has watched over Alex throughout the play, the audience has held vigil for her. As the scene dissolves into bright white light, our anxiety over Alex’s surgical outcome softens into a realization that, regardless of what happens, Mary Jane has found the strength and grace to endure.
Ultimately, final monologues generate narrative catharsis because they honor the specific journey preceding them. The emotional release a character experiences in their final speech is deeply tied to the cumulative weight of the play's action. By withholding this release until the climax, a playwright maintains dramatic tension, keeping characters active and the narrative unresolved. When that pressure is finally released, as it is in Mary Jane, the result is a singular, unforgettable moment of emotional truth.
