FST's 'The Heart Sellers' talks turkey about Asian immigrant experience

Lloyd Suh’s “The Heart Sellers” deals with immigration, miscommunication, exploitation, racism, sexism, female empowerment and Julia Child’s advice on baking a turkey. That may sound like a boring sermon or a lecture, but it’s not. It’s a very funny play. If you learn something, good for you.

The protagonists in the Florida Studio Theatre production are two recent Asian immigrants to the United States. Luna (Rona Figueroa) hails from the Philippines; Jane (Michelle Heera Kim) is South Korean.

They’ve arrived in strange days. The year is 1973. A few years earlier, the Hart-Celler Immigration Act had repealed quotas restricting Asian immigration, giving the play its title.

Richard Nixon is up to his jowls in the Watergate scandal and the Miami Dolphins are headed for the Super Bowl. Strangest of all, it’s Thanksgiving!

This holiday seems unfathomable to Luna and Jane. There’s no Korean or Philippine equivalent. Thanksgiving for what? An imaginary multicultural meal? Pilgrims in funny hats? They don’t really know the story. 

But they do know this all-American feast calls for a turkey dinner. Cooking a turkey is the American thing to do — and both women want to fit in. So, Jane and Luna both go on a turkey quest — and bump into each other at the grocery store. They join forces, buy a turkey and return to Luna’s flat.

Thankfully, they arrive. Now what? How the heck do they cook this big bird? Jane passes on Julia Child’s televised words of wisdom. Luna listens, nods and puts the turkey in the oven. Ah, but it’s a frozen turkey. Rock-hard, cold as ice and not cooking anytime soon.

 Lacking a microwave, the women agree to turn up the heat, keep checking the oven and wait it out. After a few glasses of wine, they get to talking and forget about the bird. You should, too.

This play’s turkey is a special breed. Alfred Hitchcock might call it a “MacGuffin Turkey." It’s the playwright’s excuse to get the characters together and get the play rolling. It works great.

Under Kate Alexander’s deft direction, you watch the two women drop their guard and gradually open up to each other. Suh’s dialogue is all about secrets and silences. 

Luna and Jane’s unspoken words reveal far more than what they’re willing to say. Alexander reads between the lines and makes their intentions clear. And gets you laughing in the process.

Suh’s comedy has two classic ingredients; Luna and Jane are an odd couple; they’re both fish out of water. While the turkey stays cold, that recipe makes the laughter sizzle. The playwright’s jokes are all character-based. The actors smartly individualize their characters. They’re light years away from generic Asian-American caricatures.

Figueroa’s Luna talks a mile a minute. She strives to find common ground with Kim’s Jane. Coming to America seems like a good conversation-starter. Aside from her fascination with Julia Child and K-Mart, Jane has little to say on the topic. 

“Everything’s fine in America” is Luna's official party line. She sounds upbeat about the USA. But she’s actually complaining but not admitting it to herself. (Evidently, Luna’s life isn’t so fine here.) Kim’s Jane doesn’t complain — or say much at all. In the first act, she stays taciturn and guarded. Her English isn’t good, but that’s not the source of her silence. 

Jane’s playing it safe and keeping her true thoughts to herself. But Luna builds Jane’s confidence — until she feels it’s safe to drop her guard. Then you see Jane’s inner depths. And her simmering anger.

The saddest 1970s apartment ever seen

Luna and Jane’s heart-to-heart talk transpires in shabby surroundings. Isabel A. and Moriah Curley-Clay’s set is the saddest apartment ever. Imagine all the worst elements of 1970s interior design in one place. Pressed wood, Formica, cheap shag rug and avocado-green appliances. 

Nothing’s built to last. There’s no place like home — and this dump definitely isn’t. Anthony Tran’s costumes are low-rent and bottom shelf. They perfectly fit the characters — or don’t.

That’s Thanksgiving night for Jane and Luna.

The hours tick away, the bird stays hard as a rock and the women talk turkey. Luna’s bubbly; Jane’s reserved. Two outsiders, two odd ducks. That recipe got the comedy cooking in the first act. The second act’s still funny. But it’s not all laughs.

Image courtesy of Sorcha Augustine

Maybe it’s the wine. In vino veritas, and all that. But the women’s talk reveals a lot. And you learn something, after all.

You find out how much Jane and Luna miss their families. And the sights, sounds and smells of their native lands. They’re both homesick. But they’re not looking back on idealized childhood memories. 

Both grew up under martial law. Fernando Marcos’ regime was brutal in the Philippines. South Korea’s military dictator was equally vicious. The two governments weren’t the women’s only oppressors. Their homes were dictatorships too.

In the days of their youth, South Korea and the Philippines shared rigidly patriarchal cultures. Marriage wasn’t a democracy. The man was king of his castle. Husbands gave the orders; wives obeyed. Jane and Luna’s marriages fit that pattern. Their second-class status continued after they came to the U.S.

You discover that Jane and Luna aren’t immigrants by choice. Their husbands were physicians in training — and came to America to continue their studies. They dragged their wives along and didn’t ask permission.

Their husbands are now medical interns at a nearby teaching hospital. They’re gone for most of the day, while their wives are home alone. They’ve ordered their Jane and Luna to stay out of trouble. But tonight, they don’t follow orders.

Dancing, drinking and dirty movies

After a little more wine, Jane and Luna plot a private feminist revolution of dancing, drinking and dirty movies. But it doesn’t start tonight. And not in this play. (As far as I can tell, the turkey doesn’t get cooked, either.)

Suh breaks Aristotle’s first commandment. He sets up a conflict without resolving it. Jane and Luna are in transition. Their story doesn’t wrap up before the final curtain. The characters are left with questions, not answers. So is the audience.

What does it mean to be an American? Everybody’s from someplace else here. Alienation is an American birthright, right? There is no fate. You’re free to create your own destiny. Don’t hold onto the past. Forget the lessons of childhood. Just be yourself. Be what you want to be, baby! Whatever that may be.

Self-invention is the true American dream. That shiny dream tempts Jane and Luna. But it also feels like a betrayal. Forget the lessons of childhood? That’d be like selling out their hearts …

And that’s how their story doesn’t end. Luna and Jane put their feminist revolution on hold. They’re still profoundly homesick. But they can’t go home again. 

America’s their home now. But it doesn’t feel like home. In a few years, it might. But in 1973, they’re still strangers in a strange land. But not total strangers.

Thanks to Thanksgiving, they’ve each found a new friend.