AMERICAN BUFFALO
by David Mamet
Directed by Neil Pepe
Starring Laurence Fishburne, Sam Rockwell and Darren Criss
Circle in the Square Theatre
Official Website
Reviewed by David Spencer
It is a wonder why some things endure, yet American Buffalo, David Mamet‘s odd-duck early play (circa early 70s) about three small-time criminals still possesses all its darkly goofy fascination and—dare I say it?—charm. It also—in that way of young work from an idiosyncratic voice—retains the energy of pure reflex, the fresh-out-of-the-box vitality of the author’s imprimatur before it became codified and (on occasion) self-parodied.
There’s not much of a story (this was written in the days before the author, by his own admission, learned the mechanics of plot). Mostly there’s this cluttered resale shop run by fiftyish Donny (Laurence Fishburne) who is mentoring the simple, sweet, one-hopes-former drug addict, young Bobby (Darren Criss). In league with a poker buddy named Fletch (ever unseen), Donny and Bobby plan to pull off a heist of some valuable coins from a private collection in a nearby house. That is, until another poker colleague, the hot-headed Teach (Sam Rockwell) invites himself into the deal with a line of forceful, persuasive and yet somehow utterly transparent bullshit. (He insists on bringing a gun along on the job, “in case, God forbid, something inevitable should happen.”) The three of these guys together aren’t as clever as a box of hair, yet their loopy personalities combine to make as durable as the nickel for which it is named.
At the Circle in the Square Theatre, director Neil Pepe—who performed the honors some 22 years ago at the Atlantic, on its proscenium stage—delivers a faithful, no-frills rendition on a long thrust stage, that brings out the best of its actors.
Among the hardest things to do with early Mamet plays, and especially this one, is make his deliberately fractured-syntax, faux-verité dialogue sound completely natural. There’s often a slight sense of affectation; you get used to it as the actors warm into something more relaxed, but that’s the space of a honeymoon period. There’s no such “tell” to the illusion here. Partly it’s because conversational patois has become a much more common device over the decades (I’m suddenly reminded that a forgotten television event of 1987 was “Wasted Weekend,” a teleplay written by Mamet for Hill Street Blues—I’m thinking of it, I suppose, because Hill Street, like Mamet, helped push that envelope, and the combination of the two seemed an inevitable coming-together); but mostly it’s because this trio of actors are that solidly in the groove. It’s like they’re blowing jazz with words. The anchor seems to be Fishburne, best of the many Donnys I’ve seen over the years. Often Donny is cast as one of those guys who carry a bit of a waist and can give you a sense of having weathered too much. But Fishburne is muscular and manages the balance of seeming both emphatic and low key. He’s the perfect hub for the sweet, dumb Bobby of Darren Criss and the impotently unstable Teach of Sam Rockwell to bounce off of.
And beyond that, I haven’t got much more to tell you. It doesn’t get old, this play. When done right—and here it’s done exceptionally well—it even gets better. It’ll surprise you. Do attend.