Sarah Lemp, Mark Roberts, Matthew Pilieci

Photos by Russ Rowland

 

                      By Eugene Paul

Enter at Forest Lawn, by Mark Roberts, is the second –and shorter but more vitriolic—play in The Gyre, the title that the Amoralists have given to their repertory play voyage of discovery of the vicious cycles we experience. It is hobbled from the beginning by having its motivating conflict offstage, an interesting oversight by the much more experienced author, a successful – read “hit” TV shows – practitioner of the art of getting laughs to tickle millions at a time.  Author Roberts plays Jack, the megalomaniacal producer/writer of a TV hit about a charming, witty, womanizing uncle who runs off the rails regularly.  Unfortunately, his lead playing that uncle is indeed wildly off the rails with the usual, drugs, hookers, escapades, and won’t sign the contract which will give the show fortunes in syndication, now waiting.

 

Anna Stromberg as Marla and Mark Roberts as Jack Story

      Photos by Russ Rowland

Meanwhile, bald, heavily bearded Jack, dressed like a pseudo biker (thank you, costumer Lux Haac) paces his mausoleum like office (thank you, designer David Haarwell) with a jaunty, syphilitic stagger and rants. Violently.  He terrifies his newbie secretary, Jessica (marvelous Sarah Lemp) into imbecility with his vituperative orders.  When his former lover – also former secretary, now a slithering agent -- (outstanding Anna Stromberg) forces her way into this, his sacred space, he not only verbally abuses her, he sexually abuses her, just as she intended and knew he would. Now she can ask him to see her “cousin” Clinton, a wounded G.I. would-be writer, looking for a job.  She leaves, triumphant.  Not triumphant in his departure but craven, bent over, terrified, presenting his ample rump for abuse, is his lawyer manager Stanley ( spot on David Larson) who bears further bad news about their dilemma producing star who won’t play ball. Enter the wounded “cousin” Clinton, (arresting Matthew Policy), crab-wise, unbidden, his gleaming metal hook instead of a hand, shining, a smiling bundle of suppressed rage.

Director Jay Stull has gone hog wild reaching into the history of directorial design, layering the vituperative, nastily naturalistic dialogue of author Roberts with Expressionistic movement, strangely, for the men, not the women.  He has the craven lawyer, Stanley, move about  humiliatingly bent over, works the writer-job seeker Clinton into lobster like  crouches and flailings, stages raging producer Jack’s staggering, fist waving pacings, all to underline the excoriating mouthings blasted about when it’s all the last thing the play needs, as he must surely know.  His audience has to care about someone or something.  And when your playwright finds it cathartically necessary to rebel, it is still the job of the director to bring his audience and his play together.  Portraying a sick society to a sick society is tricky, to say the least. We are repelled.  And when the shock of actual, sick violence occurs, rather than admiring the lesson therein, we are doubly repelled.

As for our vicious cycles, while Roberts knows how to shock, Ahonen, in the other play, beats him pants down.  Roberts acts up a self satisfied storm.  Ahonen’s voluminous indulgences are sloppy in comparison.  Both writers revel in showing off loathsome characters. Roberts, nevertheless, has written the beginnings of a play.  Ahonen has swamped his play in unnecessary reiterations.

Enter at Forest Lawn. At Walkerspace, 46 Walker Street, between Broadway and Church Street.  Tickets: $40, $20 students. In repertory. For schedule, go to theAmoralists.com. 70 Minutes.