Ecstasy
Clumps of actors slouching about, scratching their ears and “acting natural,” are about as common on Chicago stages as gobs of spit on subway platforms. But sometimes spit can fascinate, refracting light intriguingly, bubbling unexpectedly, offering up mysterious bits of matter you simply wouldn’t encounter anywhere else. Bad naturalistic actors, on the other hand, are typically about as beguiling as a glass of distilled water.
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But in skilled hands, such as those of the remarkable Roadworks ensemble, naturalism can elevate the most mundane moments to pure sublimity. As in their inspired production of Eric Bogosian’s SubUrbia last year, watching a bunch of twentysomething losers kill time for two hours in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven can be a thrill, even if the play offers balding retreads of well-worn Gen X cliches. SubUrbia’s cast, led by the effortlessly dazzling Patrick McNulty, weren’t just gobs of spit–they were half-dollar phlegm gobbers.
Epstein strives to suck all the life off the stage in order to create Leigh’s sinkhole of working-class dolor. It’s a gutsy choice to which she and her cast wholeheartedly commit, reviving the same deathly torpor in an even more sluggishly paced scene between Jean and Roy that concludes the first act. (The performances are impressive: Derek Hasenstab’s guttural, swaggering Roy is a perfect foil for Rachel Singer’s traumatically numbed Jean.)
By rights, this should be the most boring play in town. And at least one critic has complained that the show doesn’t have a point (I wonder how that critic feels about Hamlet). But the sophistication and economy of the performances transform a seemingly aimless evening into an epic saga of stagnation. The four sink deeper and deeper into the ruts they mistake for their lives, but in the end they get through, which in Leigh’s world is nearly an act of heroism. Their struggle is charming, inspiring, and heartbreaking all at once.
