519 Reviews as of : 03/06/2010

mwycks@nyconstage.org


Sam Shepard is the Harold Pinter of middle America. Like Pinter plays, Shepard's always have that sense of the ominous with the threat of danger lurking in every corner and also like Pinter, the threat is usually specific to a particular milieu. What seems absurd in these two playwrights' storytelling is in fact a hyper reality and it's why their works leave a foreboding after-effect that encourages one to check the closets at night.

The White Horse Theatre Company understands this chilling value and with their latest effort in Sam Shepard-land, Buried Child, there is no denying that something darkly creepy is flourishing in the heartland of America. At an Illinois farm, an elderly and sickly man named Dodge carries on a conversation with his wife, Hallie, who is upstairs preparing herself to go on a church outing. Their conversation is the stuff of tedium, some bickering, some nagging and some discussion of their sons (not the best exposition Shepard's ever written). Into their midst returns a grandson, Vince, who, having left six years ago, also it seems has left everyone's memory. With him is his girlfriend, Shelly, who remarks upon arrival that it's like stepping into a "Norman Rockwell". She couldn't be more apt in the description for like her I have always felt that seething within Mr. Rockwell's homespun images are secrets of a disturbing nature. Mr. Shepard feels this as well and when he peels back the layers of all-American paint he finds a George Grosz instead. The kin are not just dysfunctional, they're nightmares and when the family minister in this particular play states that he is not equipped to handle their sorts of issues, truer words could not be spoken..

Cyndy A. Marion mistakenly uses portentous lighting and allows some of the appropriately staid staging to get sloppy. She could also quicken the pace by eliminating the one too many Pinter pauses which allow us to get ahead of the characters. However, Ms. Marion lets the play speak for itself letting her actors do what they need to in order to convey that something is rotten in the state of Illinois. Some of the cast perform this feat quite well while others not so well. The pretty Ginger Kroll as Shelly lets the character's California sunshine dim, accurately sensing the landscape's peril the moment she enters the scene. Karen Gibson's Hallie has the intimidating presence of a schoolmarm on acid but unfortunately misses the depths of the long-entrenched familial denial. Bill Rowley embodies the patriarchal Dodge to a T. Funnier and meaner than Archie Bunker and sadder than Willy Loman, Mr. Rowley demonstrates how the head of the house is actually just someone in the way. The other performers have various and sundry problems determining how to go about things but still manage to at least not untether the terror.

Dodge, especially in Mr. Rowley's hands, reminded me of the patriarch in Pinter's The Homecoming and I thought what an interesting twist it would be to switch these two plays' habitats. Are they the same play ? No. Do they possess the same message ? Oh yes.

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