By Ron Fassler . . .
It’s not enough to write dialogue that sounds like real people talking performed by actors with the talent to make it seem effortless. These accomplishments have to go hand in hand with creating characters of sufficient interest for 95 intermissionless minutes. And this is where playwright Owen Panettieri fails to deliver with the premiere of his mystery-drama The Lights Are On, currently at Theater Row on West 42nd Street. This three-person play becomes as static as the clock on the wall of Brian Dudkiewicz’s set—stuck at 11:45 the whole evening. At least it was the night I attended. Its hands never budged an inch.
The play begins with Liz (Danielle Ferland) alone in her kitchen singing the Mamas and the Papas’ “Make Your Own Kind of Music.” Her private reverie is interrupted by a loud banging on her front door and pleas to be let inside. First grabbing a knife, then later a gun, Liz finally opens the door upon realizing it’s her neighbor Trish (Jenny Bacon), terrified that someone has invaded her house. Then, as time passes, we get the backstory to their relationship . . . having to do with their once being close friends, mostly due to the close ages of their sons. Over the years, the two women have become estranged. Liz is now a widow and a recluse. Trish, divorced, seems put-together but is obviously as fragile as Liz, if not more so. The last to enter the picture is Liz’s son, Nathan (Marquis Rodriguez), who shares the house with his mom. This triangle allows for a series of talks among the trio, or in pairs when a person conveniently exits the small space for another room, leaving the two others onstage. And so it goes.
A sense of mystery is present over what is truly troubling Trish (is there really someone in her house?), but the bigger question remains throughout the play: do we really care? As the only one of the three who doesn’t appear quite who she seems to be, Trish is a mystery the playwright never solves. It would have made more dramaturgical sense for each of the characters to have some secret about them, but both Liz and Nathan talk pretty openly and don’t withhold very much—until way too late. Yes, backstories are revealed (the time needs to be filled) but it’s all dramatically inert since they’re mostly about things that happened in the past and are not happening at the moment. Except for Nathan being somewhat obtuse at times, he’s no genuine threat and neither is his mom, in spite of her having a knife and gun at the ready (she’s prone to paranoia). I guess I was grateful that at least the playwright didn’t hold to Chekhov’s maxim that once a gun is introduced it has to—at some point in the play—go off.
Again, no fault to the actors who are all well cast, and who each have distinct handles on their characters. Danielle Ferland—whom many theatergoers will never forget for her back-to-back portrayals in two major Sondheim works; as Louise (“I want my glasses!”) in Sunday in the Park with George (1984), as well as Little Red in Into the Woods (1987)—makes Liz as believable as possible. Forever busy with props, labeling and itemizing, she captures a person who needs to be constantly engaged in order to make it through the day. With Trish, Jenny Bacon creates a woman who is barely holding onto her wits. She prompts genuine feeling into her character’s welfare, which is no small trick, considering the role isn’t terribly well written. Marquis Rodriguez captures the youthful arrogance and surliness of Nathan, as well as the profound empathy he has for his mother. He’s unfortunately saddled with the playwright’s worst dramatic invention, one that brings things to an unsatisfying conclusion.
The clock’s malfunction notwithstanding—unless it’s on purpose, which it could be since Liz is always looking around for batteries—Brian Dudkiewicz’s set is well-designed. The costumes by Kara Branch make sense and Kelly Shih’s lighting effects create the right mood when called for. Janet Bentley and Andy Evan Cohen’s sound work (a great many strange noises are devised) adds to the eeriness required. Sarah Norris’s direction can’t be faulted, drawing out, as it does, three sharp performances. Without strong writing to back up its scenes, the overriding issue is the lack of proper suspense to entice the audience. It’s necessary to be disturbed as well as to care, neither of which is accomplished here. In spite of the cast’s hard work, The Lights Are On isn’t suitable enough as a mystery play to scare up audiences this month of Halloween.
The Lights Are Out. Through November 11 in Theatre One at Theatre Row (410 W 42nd Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues). www.theatrerow.org
Photos: Hunter Canning
