BACK
STAGE WEST
February
20, 2003
at
Theatre of NOTE
Erik Patterson's strange new play is one that takes you
by surprise and ravishes you. Polymorphously perverse and evenhandedly
sympathetic, on one level it's a domestic-abuse recovery drama refracted
through a creepy, fragmented, peep-show sensibility; on another level it's a
masterful demonstration of the way sexual confusion can function as a visceral
theatrical metaphor for the mutability and unreliability of identity. Not that
Patterson presents us abstractions--he's much too empathetically engaged in the
messy particulars of his characters' lives to embalm them in interpretation or
burnish them with spurious virtues. But he's clearly a playwright with more on
his mind than the naturalistic details and fraught comedy of dysfunctional
relationships, both of which he nails beautifully when he gets around to it;
it's the getting-around-to-it part that shows Patterson's formal and
philosophical ambitions.
It's
also probably the part that will lose, or confound, some audiences: The play
opens, in avenue staging, with a woman (Alina Phelan) singing Bjork's
"It's Oh So Quiet" centerstage; to one side, a statuesque pole dancer
(Jennifer Ann Evans) struts her stuff, and to the other a man (Christopher
Neiman), naked below the waist, is either finishing a particularly painful
bowel movement or straining for self-induced orgasm (I couldn't quite tell from
where I sat). The distinction may be moot for Elliott, the sexual-compulsive
nebbish who first emerges as a protagonist; he's the kind of sad little
need-hole who thinks he may be in love with a male hustler (a Dionysian Richard
Werner) and who tries to give direction to a female phone-sex operator (spunky,
querulous McKerrin Kelly), when he's not putting her on hold to take worried
calls from his mother. To either side, under ominous direct light, a
white-coated doctor (Scott McKinley) pops up occasionally to pontificate about
deviant sexuality, with moral disgust and clinical condescension redolent of
another era. It's not long before we're treated to stunningly accurate
demonstrations of pole- and lap-dancing, matter-of-fact sex-worker shop talk,
and a few more renditions of Bjork tunes--it seems that Elliott's little sister
(Phelan) is an infantilized teen who literally believes she is the Icelandic
pop princess. What the hell is going on?
The
answers unfold beguilingly, as unlikely connections form like synapses and fire
the play's world. Miguel Montalvo's direction is raw and weirdly tender
throughout, even amid the jolts of the first act. A second-act scene in which
Phelan and Rachel Kann, as a hoarse Goth teen, bond over their Discmans is
almost shockingly moving and funny. In the play's main roles, Neiman and Evans
are like an R. Crumb couple come to life: the sweaty homunculus pervert and the
towering, leggy Amazon. Both are extraordinary, particularly the pale Evans,
who displays an invigorating, almost daunting self-possession in her platform
heels, thong, and pasties; it's partly a matter of Evans capturing the
stripper's professional pride, in comic contrast with the awkward beginner
Brooke (Kelly), but also something else, something vital and unembarrassed and
relentless despite the damage, that taps the telltale heart of Patterson's
play.
Even
the one connection we may feel is missing--between the fragmentation and
indirection of the first act, and the seemingly more conventional dramatic
shape of the second act--is ultimately made. Like everything else about Yellow
Flesh/Alabaster Rose, it has both the shock of recognition and the unexpected warmth
of benediction. The freaks are all right.
"Yellow
Flesh/Alabaster Rose," presented by and at Theatre of Note, 1517 Cahuenga
Blvd., Hollywood. Thurs.-Sat. 8 p.m. Feb. 14-Mar. 29. $15. (323) 856-8611.