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The very nature of live theatre, with a group of people gathering together to watch others perform, makes it one of the most human of all art forms. But that sense of humanity feels magnified and especially present at any show helmed by Mengesha. 

Throughout her tenure as artistic director of Soulpepper, she’s not shied away from prickly, complex works that others would hesitate to program — stories of outcasts and outsiders, those forgotten and those swept aside. 

A faded southern belle whose only tether to the real world is the kindness of strangers. A pair of incarcerated murderers, who spend their days debating philosophy, justice and religion. An immigrant father, grappling with what it means to leave a legacy when his children have moved on.

Look, Mengesha seems to beckon to her audience, these stories and these voices deserve our attention, too. 

For her final production as Soulpepper’s artistic leader, Mengesha had more than earned the right to dust off her hands and go out easy. But instead, she’s given us the Canadian premiere of a production that’s as chewy, complicated and profound as all those other works she’s programmed and directed throughout her seven years at the helm of the company.

Lucy Kirkwood’s 2020 play “The Welkin” is no easy watch, asking tough questions of its cast, director and audiences. It follows a jury of a dozen women in 18th-century England, who must consider the veracity of a murderer’s pregnancy claim. 

A male jury, in a courtroom below the women’s deliberation room, has already found Sally (Bahia Watson) to be guilty. A male judge has already sentenced her to be hanged. But if these women believe Sally’s claim, her death sentence would be commuted.

Like other courtroom dramas, “The Welkin” explores those somewhat predictable themes of power, justice and the malleability of truth. Kirkwood’s story, however, is also more than that. 

It’s set in 1759, the year Halley’s comet passes close to the Earth, as it does every 75 years or so. And that celestial object plays an important role in the play. 

It becomes a symbol of multitudes. Of hope and progress, yes. But also of the stubbornness of change. Like a comet, can all that progress be for naught? Kirkwood seems to ask. After a winding journey, do we just circle back to where we all began? 

When the deliberation begins, there’s only one woman who initially comes to Sally’s defence: Lizzy Luke (Mayko Nguyen), a midwife who delivered Sally some two decades ago. 

“I do not ask you to like her,” Lizzy pleads to her fellow jurors. “I ask you to hope for her, so that she might know she is worth hoping for. And if you cannot do that for her sake, think instead of the women who will be in this room when that comet comes round again, and how brittle they will think our spirits, how ashamed they will be, that we were given our own dominion and we made it look exactly like the one down there.”

Slowly but surely, one by one, Lizzy picks off the other jurors, and convinces them to take her side. 

If this all sounds somewhat reminiscent of “12 Angry Men,” you’re not wrong. Nguyen’s character is practically a stand-in for Henry Fonda’s Juror #8. And “The Welkin,” particularly in Act 1, follows that other jury drama closely. 

But it’s in this first half where Kirkwood’s play is weakest. It’s stiff, lacks depth and a plays like a rather pedestrian procedural. Kirkwood especially struggles to develop each of her (many, many) characters. Even the repetitive way in which she introduces the women on the jury feels like an uninspired device meant to dig the play out of a narrative rut. (The jurors each come to the front of the stage and hastily announce themselves to the judge and, by extension, the audience.) 

After intermission, however, “The Welkin” transforms into something impressive. The pace quickens, the story deepens, and there’s finally a level of tension that the stakes demand. 

Part of this transformation in the second half is thanks to Kirkwood’s greater willingness to play with the story’s form. In Act 2, the show’s themes of change and the circularity of progress aren’t merely discussed in the script, but reflected in its structure. There’s a brilliantly constructed scene, in particular, when “The Welkin” seemingly blurs and reaches forward in time, asking its audience to consider how far we have — or haven’t — progressed since that era when the play is set. If only the entire show functioned at this level. 

Despite the script issues, this production remains a showcase of Mengesha at her best, and her ability to masterfully balance style and substance.

When Kirkwood’s material at times struggles to maintain its focus, Mengesha demonstrates effortless control. A beautifully choreographed sequence near the top of the show effectively, and wordlessly, introduces each of the supporting characters far more successfully than Kirkwood does.

Bonnie Beecher’s lighting helps to isolate individual characters, while Thomas Ryder Payne’s sound design conjures up an oppressive, stifling world. (The taunts and jeers from the onlookers outside the courthouse permeate through the windows. They’re not waiting for justice to be served; they’re waiting to see a hanging.)

Mengesha draws impressive performances from the ensemble cast. Watson’s Sally ebbs and flows between moments of bitter rage and quiet, pious introspection. Our level of sympathy toward her character likewise follow these shifts. Lizzy, meanwhile, is the beating heart of “The Welkin,” and Nguyen’s grounded performance offers a strong foundation for the rest of the production. 

Any fan of Mengesha’s work should not miss this farewell run. Much like a comet, streaking across the sky, it’s a blazing, spectacular finish for one of this country’s most talented and consistent directors.