In Florian Zeller’s “The Father,” Anthony, 80, in the
grip of dementia, is a captain ready to go down
with the ship. Overhearing his daughter and
son-in-law contemplating a nursing home, he
curses them as “rats” abandoning him. Pacing his
London apartment in a bath robe, he mounts a
noble resistance.
“I am not leaving my flat!” he shouts.
But if the battle lines are clear for Anthony, little
else is. Every time Anthony leaves a room, when
he re-enters, the light has shifted, the furniture