At UChicago, math is hard, but the biggest problems are in the lives we lead, not the pages of Baby Rudin. Proof, a highly acclaimed and canonical 21st-century drama written by UChicago alum David Auburn, tells this story. The play is an exhilarating tale of human struggle and achievement, and Bluebird Arts’ production, intelligent and beating with energy, is no exception.

This production of Proof opens somewhat atypically, with Catherine (Dana Muelchi), the daughter of a legendary UChicago mathematician, playing piano. This seemingly mundane act abruptly changes significance when a few lines of dialogue pass and the time is revealed–it’s one in the morning. In this opening sequence, director Luda Lopatina Solomon foreshadows what’s to come: Catherine’s playing captures her restless intelligence and instability; Vivaldi’s concerto, the sense of chase and urgency, the disclosure of the time, the production’s shrewd ability to change tone and stakes in an instant.

Surprise and urgency are recurring themes in this production, and Proof wastes no time. In the first scene, Catherine and her father Robert (Geoff Isaac), a captivating and scattered former mathematician, each grill one another as Catherine questions her sanity, insecure if she will follow in the path of her father’s psychosis. Both actors are sharp, displaying sparks of ambition muddied by psychological barriers: for Catherine it’s depression, for Robert psychosis and confusion. Jarring truths are strewed throughout their conversation, which is airtight and leaves few moments of pause. We find out abruptly that it’s Catherine’s birthday, which she plans to spend alone. It’s clear from just a few lines of dialogue that she’s incredibly intelligent. The man she’s talking to, her amicable father, died a week prior.

Proof tells the story of Catherine, an unexpected mathematical genius, but at its core, the production is about something much more relatable. As the plot unfolds and the characters struggle with loss, mental illness, and proving their worth (and their math), there’s a narrative that it’s our flawed natures which make us human. For instance, as Catherine struggles with her father’s past incapacitation with mental illness and the weight of dropping out of college to be his full-time caretaker, there are unexpected but relatable feelings of loneliness and even relief. “I’m glad he’s dead,” she snaps at one point.

The characters around Catherine care deeply about her but also want something from her, in a paradoxical way that is invariably human. Hal (Callahan Romeo Crnich), a previous student of Robert who becomes romantically involved with Catherine, is earnest and nerdy (of course—he’s a UChicago student). While he clearly connects with Catherine, countering her disillusionment and drawing out an upbeat side of her in touchingly awkward and intimate moments, he also has his own motives. He hopes to discover unpublished math in Catherine’s attic, which he hopes her father wrote during moments of lucidity amidst the heaps of notebooks filled with gibberish. Likewise, Claire (Talia Langman), Catherine’s terse and disciplined sister from the East Coast, shows genuine care for Catherine, yet chides her in seemingly every moment with little repose. In another of the production’s shocking moments, we learn she’s sold the family’s house from underneath Catherine. The characters’ blemishes and the root of their struggles–Hal’s insecurity of succeeding in math, Claire’s regret for Catherine’s depression and jealousy of her intelligence–are shown in full view and with depth by the actors, allowing the audience to recognize the nuance of humanity in the characters. This is done especially well in Act Two, when Hal, under Catherine’s direction, finds a groundbreaking proof in the attic and the characters are suddenly pitted against one another for who gets credit.

Auburn’s high-stakes drama pans out in almost entirely two-person scenes, but thanks to the creative team, the four-person cast never feels small. The set (designed by Samantha Rausch), with steps, tables, and an intricate, homey interior, leaves ample room to play for the actors; a blurred boundary between the stage and the audience is similarly versatile and immersive (a bench set piece is literally flush with audience seats). Lighting (Karina Osbourne) and sound (Brandon Reed) fill out larger moments like a centerpiece house party and help make the production feel bigger when it needs to.

One of the production’s greatest strengths is its tightness and high energy, but it could have benefited from allowing important moments to sit for longer. The romance between Hal and Catherine felt rushed at times, and their intimacy would have made more sense with slower pacing. Some tone-shifting moments in the play could have been given more time to breathe so that their weight could be properly felt—for instance, when it’s revealed in scene one that Catherine’s talking to her deceased father.

Of course, that’s not to say that the production lacked intimacy or slower moments entirely. The gold-tinted flashbacks in Act Two are beautiful and heartbreaking, as Catherine and Robert show the depths of their care toward each other. It is at once both paradoxical and human to see how frustrating yet rewarding caring for a loved one can be. Both actors shine in these vulnerable moments, and Robert’s tragic mental decline reflects clearly on Catherine and her character development.

It is moments like these, where the characters’ struggles are on full display, that makes this production much more than a story about math. In Bluebird Art’s spellbinding Proof, none of the characters are perfect, and that’s okay. Life is not math, and no matter how much of a genius one might be, it cannot be solved in an elegant proof.