I envy the credulous...sometimes. It seems comforting to have that default position of knowing that can withstand all evidential argument to its contrary. Mine is not simply an envy of religious folk, though the surety of the deeply devout has undeniable appeal, but of anyone who just plain believes in something despite all demonstrations of its fallacy. I think of birthers, 9/11 conspiracists, fans of Jimmy Buffett and Insane Clown Posse, you get the picture. Belief that only strengthens in the face of all evidence that it's just plain wrong. This bloody-mindedness builds communities of the likewise-inclined and inspires reality shows where “spectrologists” or whatever with little LED-adorned boxes traipse through old granaries with infra-red cameras going, “DOOD! WHAT WAS THAT!?!” Enter the UFOlogists. Putting aside shaky cellular video, grainy black-and-white stills and lack-of-proof-is-proof-of-the-cover-up thinking, the true-believing martian chasers form a worldwide community, welcoming of disparate, even contradictory ideas about alien visitation. Belief is the membership card, the details are secondary. Lauren Dusek Albonico's comedy Intelligent Life, directed by Annamaria Pileggi at HotCity Theatre, focuses on one little pocket of this international brotherhood.
Robin (Aarya Sara Locker) has made the search for aliens her life's work. Out of a rented basement, she and Beau (Scott Schneider) operate an extra-terrestrial investigation operation, though Beau's commitment is questionable. He's more committed to snogging with Jessie (Emily Fisher) the Hooter's waitress, sacking out in the “office” and getting high with boozy divorcé Gary (Kevin Beyer). One night, chemicals a-flowin', the boys catch themselves an alien and lock it in the closet. In the cold, hard light of day, however, what they've got hold of is Aethan (Parkers Donovan) a runaway ten-year-old who's freakishly intelligent and can make the lights go dim. Aethan's not quite ready to head straight home and in a move that stretches one's suspension of disbelief, the fellas claim the lad is the alien, and Robin buys it. We get the skinny on much of the plot's nuts and bolts through ex post facto monologues we discover are responses to a television crew's interview questions. Each character has at least one of these over the course of the show's two acts, and overall the device works, revealing just enough to complement the real-time action.
A premise this unlikely could turn into a ramshackle mess, but the HotCity folks keep it from going off the rails. Aarya Sara Locker's Robin is a crucially strong performance, grounding the action with a controlled, natural performance—no “acty-acting” in evidence. She makes the lunacy of the proceedings seem less absurd by her matter-of-fact assurance of her cause; she'd have a skeptic out hunting spaceships after an hour's chat-up at a party. She's the ersatz grown-up of the proceedings. When Beau tranquilizes her in Act I (to buy time when he discovers he's kidnapped Aethan) Locker treats the audience to a genius chunk of physical comedy. Asserting her dominance through a druggy fog and failing limbs, Beau still knows who's boss. Scott Schneider gives Beau and appropriate stoner affability. Whether or not he's still entirely on board with Robin's cause, he once was, and he can play along while it's fun and suits his needs. Overall, this is a winning performance and Schneider's Beau is a likeable schlub, but he could use a dose o' the ole “less is more.”
He's clearly a talented actor, but he's a mugger. Eye-rolls and smirks abound amid superfluous gesticulation and affected mannerisms. Often it feels he's swinging for the fences at every gag—or worse, pitching up gags that aren't there—when pulling it back and trusting the playwright might be more effective. When he does settle down, he's more effective as Beau, engaging more fully with his fellows and establishing a charming intimacy and affection with Aethan. As for Aethan, Parkers Donovan acquits himself admirably. I'll get my one nitpick out of the way: this kid ain't ten. But, good luck finding the ten-year-old actor who won't overplay a super-genius.
Thank goodness, too, because Donovan nails it. His Aethan is no show-off, just a gifted kid with a troubled relationship with Mom. Donovan's not afraid to go for it, spending most of the evening in a dinosaur costume or in his undies, which serve as casual storage for small objects, a running bit. Jessie is us, enjoying the ride but more than willing to call “bullshit.” Emily Fisher ably encompasses the entirety of the written Jessie with plenty of attitude and significant comic chops. She's a great ancillary comic presence in the chaos of Act I, but in her interview segments and arguments with Beau, she's presented as the only real adult. It may be Hooter's but it's a job, and at least she's not lying to herself about reality or aliens or God. Now to Kevin Beyer as Gary. If he steals the show, it's not for undue effort.
Quite simply, Beyer is a superb actor given a comic character with a lot of latitude to play with. He's subtle, nuanced and sure. He under-sells his gags and his every appearance on stage rewards our attention. From drug-and-booze infused private moments to his very earnest and touching interviews, he's right there in the moment, a pro's pro. A second act bit with two sock-puppets triggered the biggest laughs I've enjoyed in a theater in recent memory. Terrence the cop, well-played by Alan McClintock, is a fun addition to Act II (he also delivers the pre-show “turn off cell-phones” message) but strikes me as largely unnecessary. This is no fault of McClintock, who's very funny, especially in his interview monologue, but a comic relief character in a comedy? The playwright could tie him in more in a subsequent re-working.
Annamaria Pileggi had her work cut out for her with this directing gig. While it may seem from my flimsy synopsis that we're just dealing with ribald farce, the playwright's notes speak of issues of faith and belief that came through as she was developing her initial draughts. The success of this show lies in that balancing act between the unbelievable events in the lives of these marginal oddball characters and the very real ideas of how we form our beliefs. Who finds God, who gives up on childish fantasies and who keeps right on believing? Pileggi strikes this balance quite well, not allowing comic chaos or mawkish sentimentality to take over, never inflicting psychic whiplash on the audience by jerking from one extreme to another. Overall, pacing is fine, but in scenes of argument or heightened tension, the cast could tighten up the cut-offs...pauses and gaps take us out of the moment (see note, below).
The stage is laid out broad and shallow, allowing good sightlines and preventing the cast from bunching up. An exterior door and the basement stairs provide fluid entrances and exits. The set is exceptional; one practically smells the dank. From the lumpy old couch to the AT-AT model from Star Wars to the pizza boxes, if you showed me a snapshot of this set and told me it was the basement office of a UFO club, I wouldn't argue. The costuming is simple but quite real-feeling, from Robin's jeans and flannel through Beau's cargo shorts and hippie-hikers to Gary's flask-concealing overalls. A Halloween scene cribbed from E.T. treats us to the vision that is Kevin Beyer in a full-body turkey suit. Ah, high art! Appropriate cinematic music swells to cover the blackouts, and one never feels a drag in scene transitions.
This ain't the strongest script to come down the pike. As is, this play works, it's just plagued with holes and implausibilities, and the rather abrupt ending leaves us a bit hungry. I could wish for a fuller denouement, especially having invested emotionally in these oddball characters. St. Louis native, Wash. U. grad and current New Mexican Albonico clearly has a gifted ear for comic dialogue, but structurally this piece feels like a work in progress. Certainly no shame there, as great playwrights have historically revisited their works with tweaks and polish. It's a credit to Annamaria Pileggi, her fine cast and all the folks at work at HotCity Theatre that these minor textual issues weather scrutiny, as they have put together a fast-paced, fun and often insightful evening's entertainment. May the farce be with you.
A note on cut-offs: except for yard work, they need to be consigned to our culture's collective sartorial rubbish bin. And flip-flops—don't nobody need to look at your gnarly funk-toes, dude. Neither is acceptable in restaurants or theaters. On the other hand, in terms of contemporary dialogue, cut-offs are practically de rigeur. When we converse we often anticipate the next utterance of our counterpart, or simply cannot abide their irrelevant spewings long enough to contain our own brilliance until a period arises, so we interject. Playwrights seeking naturalism and authentic tone in their characters' interactions often include interruptions like so:
Herp: Hey, Derp, I wanna stick my hand in your--
Derp: WHOAH! Hey, there, buddy, slow down! I'm not into that kind of--
Herp: Glove! I wish to do crimes while wearing your glove, silly!
The incoming line prohibits the completion of the original thought. The key to a cut-off is timing. If Herp gets to the word “your” and Derp hasn't already stepped in with “WOAH!”, there's a gap, a pause that tells the audience that scripted, memorized lines are being recited at them. This is dramatic death. The cure? Best I ever got was the instruction from a director to not only know for your character what the remainder of that sentence was, but where your guy would have gone after that sentence, had he not been so rudely interrupted. It rings truer if you've got someplace to go beyond the writer's em-dash. Go forth, and interrupt!
