BACK
STAGE WEST
August
07, 1997
ALL
SAINTS' DAY
at
Theatre of NOTE
Reviewed
by Rob Kendt
Playwright
Hank Bunker's All Saints' Day has everything going for it--rich characters
and conflicts, a distinctively unsettling tone, twisting veins of subtext, a
keen observational eye--except dramatic action. Indeed, it's almost as if this
world premiere production under director Susan Fenichell has all the elements
of a startlingly original play without the actual play.
The
script follows the abortive interaction of two aimless Midwestern brothers
(Brad Kalas and Matthew Blair) with the twin daughters of a messed-up
middle-class family whose matriarch (Pamela Gordon) is a blowsy drunk and whose
patriarch (James Massey) is a gruff, gun-wielding lapsed Catholic.
Their
religion is not incidental here; indeed, apart from some wry tweaking of the
church, Bunker appears quite straight-facedly concerned about the workings of
divine grace in a fallen world. That, at least, seems to be the point of having
the youngest scion of the family, a precocious nine-year-old Boy Scout (Terin
Jackson), interrogate his elders about Limbo and the eternal soul, and to make
one of the twins (Danielle Bourgon) a tremulous visionary who can smell water
and once talked to God.
But
the apparent test case for divine grace--a tense loafer played with one and a
half notes (slow burn and fizzle) by Kalas--is an extraordinarily uncompelling
fellow. And the play's second act, which takes place on the spiritually
significant night of Halloween, is bulldozed by a drawn-out drunken aria by a
"pagan" tycoon (Carl J. Johnson) who's marrying into the family; his
swilling effrontery would be a lot funnier and less unpleasant if Bunker and
Johnson didn't sketch him with such evident contempt. And, after all its hints
of profound transgression and its shifting perspectives, the play climaxes with
a remarkably half-hearted and pedestrian moment of domestic melodrama.
Denise
Poirier's set and Audrey Fisher's costumes nearly perfectly capture
late-20th-century suburban kitsch, and they're lit with obstinate
two-dimensionality by Dan Reed. But Fenichell's pacing is ponderous and her
casting perverse. Only Blair, Bourgon, Jackson, and Jerri White (as a poorly
used black maid) seem to serve their parts as written. But then, that's the
real problem here: The writing itself would best be served by sharper shaping
all around. If Bunker wants us to take his themes seriously, he should take his
craft a little more seriously, as well.
"All
Saints' Day," presented by and at Theatre of NOTE, 1517 N. Cahuenga Blvd.,
Hollywood. Aug. 1-Sept. 6. (213) 856-8611.