By Michael Feingold
By Elizabeth Zimmer
By James Hannaham
By Christian Viveros-Faune
By Christian Viveros-Faune
By R. C. Baker
By Michael Feingold
By Michael Musto
They used to say Americans were nonverbal. But lately, there's no escaping the floods of words. Certainly not by going to the theater, where New York, at least, seems to be more logorrheic than ever. But maybe our artists are right to dwell on words. "There are no accidents," as somebody says in Craig Lucas's new play, Stranger. The words we keep hearing must be either the words we need to hear or the words we want to hearmust be, anyway, in the minds of the artists who choose them. Art, that most intangible of phenomena, seems so tangible when we interact with it that people often forget it's only a symptom, a taste of what's currently in the air all around us. And around us, everything's being named, mentioned, analyzed, talked through.
By Craig Lucas
108 East 15th Street
Texts for Nothing
By Samuel Beckett
Classic Stage Company
156 East 13th Street
The suburban folk in Tom Donaghy's The Beginning of August think everything worth a mention. Where Donaghy used to cultivate a Chekhov-like, elliptical style, with all the important things left unsaid, his current characters can't wait to spill what's on their minds. Like Chekhov's people in their indecision and helplessness, they're virtually anti-Chekhovian in their explicitness. Words reel out of them: shopping lists, lists of instructions, recollections, desires, laments, challenges, recriminations, even secrets. True, one or two of the latter have to be dug for, but in general the intimacy is instantaneous and nonstop.
The troupe Donaghy's invented is too weird to be banal, less a nuclear than an unclear family, with nobody sure what rights or responsibilities they've got. Jackie and his wife Pam, relative newlyweds in a new home with a new baby, should be a prototype young American couple, only Pam's disappeared, and neurotic, anal-compulsive Jackie has to get his newly widowed stepmom, Joyce, whom he's never liked, to mind the infant. Joyce isn't good with kidsnotice how Jackie's turned outand finds the day full of traumatic intruders, including a local teen painting the house, who seems overly devoted to Pam, and a male neighbor tending the lawn, who seems oddly fascinated by Jackie and child-rearing.
The play holds to this state of chaotic, almost eventless, confrontation until Pam's whereabouts are duly revealed and the shaken-up family unit recoalesces as a sort of New Age extended clan, held together by emotional blackmail: It's too late for them to break up, since everybody now knows everybody else's secrets. At the end, Jackie makes a speech to the baby about the beautiful futureshades of Chekhov!but it would be incautious to take this as the moral: The speech begins, "This isn't what usually goes on."
In a sense, Donaghy's play is annoyingly easy; we've met its eccentrics before, and heard its repertoire of evasions and fact-slappings. What's piquant is the notion of offering up the dysfunction as is, without comment or contextjust little people having their wacky little ego collisions, like a session of outdoor group therapy on a sunny afternoon. Its affectlessness is its charm; the irritating moments are those when you catch the writer trying to make too much of something. Phenomenology means never having to strain for effects.
Neil Pepe's production, at least, doesn't strain; at worst, it occasionally gets laggard, lingering over some piece of emotional material. It doesn't do this often, though, and the people are so interesting you don't mind hanging with them to see what develops. Mary Steenburgen naturally gets the lion's share of attention and applause as stepmom Joyce, and, for once in the history of movie stars returning to the stage, actually deserves both. The sweet, Victorian-cameo face projects a panoply of feelings; the seemingly tiny, sour-wine voice turns out to have a big, big range of tones and colors. Garret Dillahunt, as Jackie, holds his own handsomely opposite her; his confusion, once or twice, gets a touch artificial, but what can you do with a character who's literally all confusion? Mary McCann catches Pam's vacant puzzlement with wonderful effectiveness, while soft-spoken Ray Anthony Thomas and brash Jason Ritter, as neighbor and painter respectively, provide an almost vaudevillean balance.
More talkdense, unnerving, and contradictoryis the substance of Craig Lucas's Stranger, in which the characters' articulateness seems to exist on a higher plane than their actions. Maybe the literal plane on which they travel in the first act is symbolic of the bumpy, two-level ride ahead. If you took Lucas's tale as realistic, it would offer limited believability and incomplete sense, but he works at a theatrical interface special to him, the point where melodrama meets fairy-tale metaphysics. On that level, what happens in Stranger isn't so implausible. Shaw said that melodrama was the naturalism of our dream life; it's easy to view Stranger as a sensitive soul's bad dream about the relations between men and women, love and power, pain and pleasure, as they exist in our drugged-up, overwrought society.
A man troubled by schizophrenia commits a crime against a young girl. Stabilized by medication, having done 15 years in prison and become born-again, he's on a plane, seated next to a woman who tells him a horrifying story (which we see enacted) about how she humiliated, tortured, and robbed a guileless man who loved her. Her fellow passenger wants to help people; she, expressing intense guilt, needs help. But Act II, where the melodramatic setups carefully concealed in Act I explode full force, is a very different tankful of lobsters, in which the abused become abusers and the balance of power shifts seismographically. The ending is none of the obvious clinchers you might expect, though it contains bits of all of them.
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