New stuff
|
Little Girls Don't Cry
Anna Paquin makes a compelling stage debut as
a young woman who seeks love in all the wrong
places; in Speaking in Tongues, farce segues
awkwardly into mystery.
John Simon
Trailer-trash comedy or drama, perhaps not quite
in evidence enough for a genre, surely qualifies
as a subgenre. It caters to an audience's need to
feel superior to at least some people without becoming
Love and Bullets: Anna Paquin and Jeffrey Donovan
are excellent in their downward spiral in The
Glory of Living. politically incorrect.
"Redneck," after all, refers less to skin color
than to a darkness of mind, a state that can be
exploited for easy laughs and titillating goosebumps.
That Rebecca Gilman's characters in The Glory of Living
are both risible and reprehensible, but not patronized or
caricatured, is in itself an accomplishment.
Gilman's plays -- her Spinning Into Butter
and Boy Gets Girl have been seen in New
York recently -- explore unseemly subjects in
challenging ways with varying efficacy, but never
without interest to us. Here again she tackles a
sordid but cautionary story. Fifteen-year-old Lisa
lost her father when she was 10; her mother turns
tricks in their wretched one-room quarters with
only a hanging sheet separating Lisa from the
sights, but not the sounds, of crude sex. The
sullen girl has learned to live with this; but
when Clint, the sidekick of one of the mother's
johns, offers Lisa marriage and escape, she
jumps at the chance.
The unfortunate girl only exchanges one kind of
lovelessness for another. Her twin babies have been
dumped on Clint's mother while the young couple rattles
through the South from motel to motel, and Lisa is obliged
to lure na?e young girls into having kinky sex with Clint.
When riddance by bullet emerges as the most expeditious
way to dispose of her husband's victims, she is eventually
even prodded into becoming Clint's executioner. All this is
presented without prurience, condescension, or moralizing.
And when Lisa finally -- perhaps too late -- encounters an
empathetic human being, Gilman does not turn sentimental.
Still, I don't want to oversell a modest play whose seamy
and savage goings-on will not be to everybody's taste.
Strongly but unluridly directed by Philip Seymour
Hoffman -- even forgoing nudity where the author calls
for it -- The Glory of Living holds us through psychological
shrewdness and on-target language, to which is added
incisive performing.
Anna Paquin, the bravura child star of The Piano, has
matured into a compelling young actress, even if her
looks do not match the text's requirements. She endows
Lisa with disarming directness, uncluttered with pleas
for sympathy. When her anxious attorney is the first to
accord her humane concern, her thawing out into belated
humanity is exquisitely calibrated. As the engaging but
psychotic Clint, Jeffrey Donovan is no less exemplary,
as is David Aaron Baker as the girl's compassionate
defender. Lesser roles, too, are caringly realized,
notably by Andrew McGinn as a witness for the prosecution.
The only disappointment is the rather routine music and
sound design by the usually outstanding David Van Tieghem.
New York Magazine, December 3, 2001
กก |