I have never really understood the appeal of Neil LaBute, and I am very hard-pressed to understand the psyche of a Neil LaBute fan (of which there are many out there, I believe). I have always been struck by how mercilessly cruel his writing often is, with no satisfactory pay-off for the audience or for the characters at the end of the piece which would justify all the heartlessness that preceded it. Unlike the characters in Adam Rapp’s plays for example, which, despite their dark thoughts and actions, have that tinge of melancholy and vulnerability that make them sympathetic and ultimately redeem them, there is nothing redeeming in LaBute’s characters. I can never be anything but repulsed at the cocky yuppie in In the Company of Men who makes a bet with his buddy that he can make their deaf co-worker fall in love with him or at the temperamental artist-student in The Shape of Things who uses her plain Joe security guard boyfriend as the subject of an art installation without him knowing it or at the clueless hunk in Fat Pig who falls in love with an overweight woman but dumps her because he finally realizes that he is too weak-too much of the stereotype of a jock/yuppie/modern American man/call it what you will-to accept getting it on with someone who is 300 lbs. I mean, unless you have an incorrigible case of schadenfreude, who could? The Profiles Theatre production a couple of years ago of Fat Pig, which I found mean-spirited (unfortunately, I think I was the only one who detested it, since the show ran for months and got a slew of Jeff nominations) made me decide that I was done giving Neil LaBute a chance. I was so over this bully-in-the-playground-laughing-uncontrollably-mentality masquerading as edgy, thought-provoking playwriting. So I sort of surprised myself when I made the spontaneous decision on the evening of Easter Sunday to see a preview of the Profiles production of In A Dark, Dark House. Well, spontaneity sometimes brings unexpected results.
Mar 31
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