Reviewed
by Will Stackman
The
ten plays turned out by Anglo/Irish playwright Martin McDonagh in the mid-90s divide into three
trilogies set in rural Ireland, with plots revolving around violence, domestic
and otherwise. The odd play out, "The Pillowman," which added another Tony
award to the writer's collection of honors is set in a totalitarian state,
possibly Slavic. This Absurdist fable suggests that McDonagh had qualms about
his penchant for telling grisly stories involving damaged characters with
psychic traumas derived form dysfunctional family lives. This time, by naming
his primary character "Katurian Katurian Katurian" a literary
"K" enters the equation. But that's only a starting point, for
Kafka's neurotic and decaying Austrio-Hungarian empire is replaced here by a
merciless modern post-Orwellian totalitarian state and the horrors under
scrutiny are much more lurid than Josef K's possible misdeeds. And although
Katurian is ready to the death to defend his stories, these gruesome screeds
get no further justification than that he wrote them.
Katurian
is played honestly and directly by award winning actor and playwright John
Kuntz. Pitted
against his almost colorless Anyman are two warped detectives with equally
impressive credentials; Steven Barkhimer as Tupolski, self-identified as a vicious
alcoholic, nominally the "good" cop, and Phillip Patrone, back from an acting hiatus as
Ariel, the unstable "bad" cop, fond of torture and violence. At first
their suspicions of him seem based solely on his distasteful and unpublished
stories, which he describes as downbeat fairy tales. Two children have been
murdered in peculiar ways matching two of his stories; a third is missing. But
as circumstances unfold and his retarded older brother, Michal, played with
uncanny skill by Bradley Thoennes enters the action, the possibilities become grimmer and
seemingly predictable. Those who've seen several of McDonagh's other works will
know better, however. Director Rick Lombardo insures that all the clues are
there.
A
number of Katurian's stories are told during the play, especially "The
Pillowman." A few are also acted out by two parents and a child, on a
raised stage behind the mirrors backing the set, Mother in several incarnations
is done by New Rep regular, Rachel Harker, while Father is played by Stephen Cooper, a Wellesley Summer Theatre
veteran. The Boy is Mathew Scott Robinson, central to "The Writer and His
Brother," which may explain Katurian's style and Michal's madness. The
Girl, who appears in "The Little Jesus Girl," played by Rebecca
Stevens, is essential the denouement of the play. A fascination with the
grotesque is perhaps what draws the audience to this sordid and possibly pedestrian
play, particularly the fable of the Pillowman, a fantasy figure who convinces
children to commit suicide so they won't grow up to lead horrible lives.
The
dialogue for this long two act play seems slightly distant, as if it might have
been translated from some other language. Moreover, the storytelling is
suggestive of a novel rather than a drama. But in the hands of skilled actors
it becomes eerily alive. In this production the set contributes to the sense of
an alternate reality. John Howell Hood has created a massive interrogation room all
steel and smudged concrete backed by a wall of mirrors, which besides
reflecting the action and about half the audience also, when scene behind are
lit, reveal the pantomime illustrations of the stories. IRNE winner John R.
Malinowski's
lighting gives a harsh reality to the downstage cell and a mysterious glow to
the backscenes, which also have projected backgrounds by Hood. Major
transitions have original music composed by Haddon Givens Kime who's now working out of Atlanta,
but still collaborating with Lombardo over the Internet. Once again, costumer Frances
Nelson McSherry
not only provides suitable outre clothes for the fairytale characters but
matches the realistic street garb for the four principals actors. The New Rep's
production efforts remain among the best in town; the minions in black moving
furniture were hardly visible.