An American Kitchen
In the wake of the Oklahoma City bombing, conspiracy comedy might seem a tasteless paradox. But Scott Anderson in An American Kitchen rushes boldly into the center of that oxymoron, drawing much of the play’s tense humor from our realization that terrorist violence often begins at home, with discontented U.S. citizens. Funny but not entertaining, Anderson’s ambitious experiment only partly succeeds: in this sitcom world the characters’ desperation stagnates, all their tension and energy diffused by comedy.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
The kitchen in question is presented literally, with an almost campy superrealism, from steaming stew to matching place mats. Designer Joseph Wade creates an excessively nice setting that enshrines the ordinary, using details like incredibly perky curtains decorated with bright vegetables and, guarding the hall entrance, the silhouette of a manly Roman centurion statue. It’s the picture of bourgeois respectability we’ve come to expect from sitcoms; however, the characters in this Playhouse world premiere are much less reassuring than their home.
Norman Lear might have predicted the queasy sense of disorientation inherent in this frightening parody of his signature genre, although moments of inspired repartee mock the domestic explosions of television. In one of their funniest fast-paced debates, the three decide that they are not the “king weird fuckers” they despise and plan to depose; they’re just “quirky” and “eccentric.” Anderson takes every opportunity to make fun of his characters’ stylized inarticulateness. Harold, trying to deliver a pep talk, is finally overcome by his own banality, stammering out that his goal is to “put all the crap out there into some small area that we don’t have to see.” If Anderson’s parody were always this clear, An American Kitchen would have been more consistently entertaining.
