By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
The marriage would fail ultimately, though, because these two people could never settle down in one genre together. The hero of Nocturne, identified simply as the Son, is his own narrator; whatever else author Adam Rapp has or hasn't doneand he hasn't written a playhe's at least given his main character a firm, unifying narrative voice. Nocturne moves like an illustrated short story, in scenes that are described rather than lived, but it moves steadily, in implacable sequence: the horrible accident; the family's devastation; the hero's escape to New York; the reclusive life poured out in writing; the tentative emergence, through a sympathetic girlfriend's ministrations, with only partial success; the reconciliation with the dying father; the end. If some of these tableaux sound familiar, it's because we've seen them before, though Rapp's pellucid, confident tone makes most of them sound fresh. (The girlfriend's ultra-patient supportiveness is hard to credit, as is the absence, at every stage, of friends, neighbors, extended family, ministers, counselors, or therapists.)
Like a running commentary by an overexcited sympathizer, Marcus Stern's production gives each tableau a streamlined, surrealistically heightened revision; Christine Jones's stunning if self-consciously showy set, lushly lit by John Ambrosone, positions each event in a different boxy alcove, like an object on display. A gunshot stands in for the car crash; instead of a reclining chair, the hero's father dies on a daybed, his head in his son's lap, Pietà-like. The images are striking, the prose crisp, the story not without truth. But it all feels artificial, constructed for effect rather than essentialized from experience. Maybe that's why Dallas Roberts as the Son, charged with the daunting task of speaking nearly the entire text, can't seem to find a secure resting place within it from which to address us. He asserts, he trembles, he mutters, all the while displaying a frenetic emotionality that's surely miles away from the hero's numbed composureabout as far, say, as a La-Z-Boy is from a Pietà.
By Melanie Marnich
Manhattan Theatre Club
131 West 55th Street
By John Kelly, music by David Del Tredici
150 First Avenue
Dot DiPrima, the heroine of Melanie Marnich's Blur, could never marry such a withdrawn and abstract figure as Nocturne's Son. She's takes initiative; when her misfortune strikesit's called Leber's Optic Atrophy or LOAshe asks, as the Son never does, "Why me?" To which no answer's given. Dot's mom (named Mom) knows more about it than we get to hear. She might be divorced, an unwed mother, or a rape victimshe always refers to Dot's father as "that stranger." But she knows, though she won't admit it till Dot confronts her, that LOA descends genetically through the female line, and is most often contracted by male children. The opthalmologist has nothing to offer Dot but ever thicker glasses and warnings of the impending darkness; the local priest, a fuzzy-headed goofball out of an SCTV sketch, finds himself losing his faith as a result of her trauma.
The combination of Mom's protective stifling and her deceit makes Dot leave home, falling in with some low-life pals who aren't so low after all: a girl with a mild facial deformity and a resultant eagerness to be tough, and the lovable dimwit who becomes Dot's guy, a cage cleaner at the local zoo. (Betcha somebody's been reading House of Blue Leaves.) Out of her trauma, Dot collects a communelike extended family, she and the cage cleaner welcoming into their apartment the tough girl, the priest, and eventually even Mom. The fragility of this coalition is demonstrated when an encounter with someone who's already blind sends Dot into a panic, and her flatmates seem to turn on her (on her birthday to boot). Matters are smoothed over, but the darkness still impends, waiting for Dot to get used to it.
Shaky and sometimes factitious as narrative, Marnich's script at any rate has action. Her problem as a writeruncertainty of toneis the antithesis of Rapp's. Mom and priest are cartoon figures, exaggerated into jocose monstrosity; Francis, the tough girl, who starts as a distinctive person, is reduced to a stage convenience. Only Dot, the prima donna, and her zoophile beau, Joey, march through the play's arbitrary scattering of scenes with consistently human voices. It can't just be the strength of the two performers, Angela Goethals and Chris Messina, that causes the discrepancy. The centerless priest is played by wonderful Bill Raymond; the more enchanting he gets, the more intrusive and pointless the character seems. Goethals and Messina, in contrast, inhabit roles that are strongly written to begin with. Unlike Marnich's caricatures, Joey's perceived in the round, his weakness and slow wit placed in a validating context (we know much more about his family than we do about Mom's) and varied with surprising bursts of passion. A smart actor seizes such moments, and Messina's very smart, moving up to these passages from inside the character's dimness.