Sunday, February 03, 2008
A+E, Theater, Reviews
Deep trouble
‘Octopus’ doesn’t fully plumb the depths of its premise
Linnea FryeJoe Sykes (standing) and Tony Larkin in “Octopus” at Actor's Express
“OCTOPUS”Actor’s Express
$10.75-$27
404-607-7469
www.actors-express.comThrough Feb. 23
DULY NOTED: I’m a “dog person” first, a “theater critic" second: e.g., I’m still trying to forgive actress Lala Cochran for playing a woman last year who kills her husband’s dog—for laughs, no less. In the one-act “Crazy for the Dog” (directed by Emily Pender), the frugal first effort of a new troupe called Rabid Artists, Robin Bloodworth plays Paul, an uptight yuppie facing emotional blackmail from his neurotic sister (Stacy Melich, 30-ish going on 13) and her scuzzy boyfriend (Alex Van). They’re holding his beloved pooch hostage until Paul atones for a traumatic childhood incident—“They were only cats,” he tries to explain—and he’s meant to be reviled for his willingness to sacrifice wife, house, job and BMW just to get his dog back. But, hey, as terrifically portrayed by Bloodworth, the guy sounds perfectly reasonable to me. The play continues through Feb. 9 at PushPush Theater. 678-810-0803.
By Bert Osborne
When bad things happen to good people, that sucks. When bad things happen to people who are less than innocent—who don’t fully grasp what they’re getting into but should’ve known better anyway, who take a reckless plunge and then seem surprised to wind up in over their heads, with no one but themselves to blame for their dire straits—that’s local playwright Steve Yockey’s “Octopus” at Actor’s Express.
A cryptic drama about the ramifications following a night of group sex between two gay couples, the show has been very smoothly orchestrated by director Kate Warner, who staged last season’s sublime production of Yockey’s “Skin,” another sexually oriented ensemble piece. Moreover, set designer Kat Conley (“The Pillowman”) outdoes herself—the wavy blue walls of the apartment evoke the water imagery to come, including supernatural plumbing leaks and one chilling scene from an ocean floor—all of which makes it easier to appreciate “Octopus” stylistically than emotionally.
That goes for Yockey’s writing, too. Some of his dialogue is pretty to listen to, if a bit grandiose to truly suit his characters. No one ever mentions HIV or AIDS by name; indeed, rather than addressing those larger issues directly, Yockey retreats into a fantasy world of symbolic sea monsters and paranormal telegrams—like a “fairy tale hanging on the edge of awareness.” It’s an undeniably interesting and well-executed conceit, even as it conveniently removes and excuses the men from taking any real responsibility for their actions.
Grounded in reality, the intimate “logistics” of the relationship between the younger couple (Joe Sykes, Tony Larkin) are more intriguing. Do they actually believe it’s not “cheating” because they’re doing it together? Why is the one so adamant to push his partner into bed with the other two (John Benzinger, Mitchell Anderson)? Why would he withdraw from the group to simply watch? Could they live with one another if either of them got “sick”? What on earth possesses them to have unprotected sex—getting “caught up” in the “intense excitement” of the moment? (The play’s fleeting, tastefully handled nude scene isn’t particularly tense or exciting so much as understandably awkward and reserved.) An ersatz “happy ending” is no answer.
Maybe I’m being a judgmental prude, but look at it this way: If I found out tomorrow that I had lung cancer, that would be sad. And if I’d never touched a cigarette in my entire life, that would make the story all the more tragic. If, on the other hand, I’ve smoked for 20 years, well, it would still be sad, but I don’t think I’d expect or deserve the same degree of sympathy. For Yockey’s purposes in “Octopus,” we ought to feel something greater for his characters than that they carelessly tempt fate—and, not remarkably at all, lose.