Something about Circuit Playhouse’s production of Dead Man’s Cell
Phone, a surreal misadventure by Sarah Ruhl, seems awfully
familiar, and I think I know why. Cell Phone‘s star Pamela
Poletti once took on the difficult role of Rose, a socially awkward
nebbish in William Mastrosimone’s claustrophobic drama The
Woolgatherer. Rose is obsessed with death and decay and has
reconfigured her identity in order to manage both her intense
loneliness and to stave off the ghosts of the past. Watching Poletti
tackle Cell Phone‘s Jean is like watching that same unhinged
character turned loose in a much bigger world at an earlier stage in
her development. It is a weird and welcome reprise in every way.
Having enjoyed a bowl of lobster bisque at a mysteriously empty
coffee house, Jean becomes annoyed when Gordon, the man seated across
from her, refuses to answer his ringing cell phone. It turns out that
this seemingly inconsiderate fellow is actually dead, so Jean answers
his phone and that’s where her extraordinary misadventure begins.
Jean’s uttering of the words, “No, he’s not here. May I take a
message?” sets into motion a string of inexplicable fibs that rips her
from her mundane existence and takes her, quite literally, from here to
eternity and back again.
Audiences who are unable to suspend their disbelief may tire of
Ruhl’s play fairly quickly. There is no logical explanation as to why
the employees of the urban coffee shop suddenly disappear as soon as
Jean discovers that Gordon is dead. And there’s no easy answer as to
why Jean doesn’t contact the authorities or at least tell the callers
that that poor Gordon’s number has been permanently disconnected.
Instead of doing anything that might make sense, Jean pretends to
have known Gordon and decides she’s going to tell his friends and
family whatever they want to hear in order to bring them comfort and
closure. Even the generally masterful Poletti has a bit of trouble
navigating some of Ruhl’s self-consciously quirky bits, like when Jean
presents Gordon’s family with the salt and pepper shakers from the
coffee shop, crafting incredible stories about how Gordon wanted his
loved ones to have these special keepsakes.
Visiting director Sean Paul Bryan began his professional career at
Playhouse on the Square in 1998. As a performance intern, he was cast
as Alan Strang in a painfully misguided production of Peter Shaffer’s
Equus. The Flyer‘s review for that show, which happened
to be my first review of a local production, was so caustic (and
deservingly so) that some members of Memphis’ theater community still
haven’t forgiven me for it. Nevertheless, after all these years, it’s
nice to finally say some nice things about the talented Bryan, who has
presented Dead Man’s Cell Phone as though it was a surrealist
spy story, complete with a driving, Peter Gunn-inspired soundtrack and
a set that might have been imagined by Rene Magritte. Bryan’s
cartoonish take on Ruhl’s comedy always threatens to go to far but
seldom does. And when it does, it does so with plenty of wit and
style.
In this over-the-top play, Allen Busby, an actor known for his
over-the-top performances, is uncommonly real. His Gordon occasionally
rises from the dead to set the record straight, and Busby’s bitter,
no-nonsense reading of a man behaving badly keeps things real even as
the plot veers toward classic conspiracy and urban myth. Likewise,
Jason Hansen, whom Poletti once directed in a spectacular production of
Waiting for Godot, continues to grow as a smart character actor.
His character Dwight, Gordon’s brother, is as awkward and needy as
Jean, and the love these two nobodies find amid the creamy bits of fine
paper in an upscale stationary store (and some of Ruhl’s least credible
writing) grounds this fun but flighty show in something like
reality.
Only Stephanie Olson goes too far in her presentation of the “Other
Woman,” a mysterious character involved in Gordon’s business. Her
character is built around a Russian accent so thick and absurd one
wonders if Moose and Squirrel are just offstage.
It’s tempting to search for some deep meaning in Ruhl’s work, and in
most instances, one doesn’t have to search very hard. But in the case
of Dead Man’s Cell Phone, it’s probably best to avoid the
temptation and simply enjoy the farce.
Through August 23rd
Get Smart
Walter Finn and Rachel Sheinkin’s 25th Annual Putnam County
Spelling Bee is a perfect antidote to the megamusicals that have
dominated the scene for the past few decades. Bee requires
virtually nothing in the way of a set, the costumes can pretty much be
bought off the rack at your local thrift store, and the songs are
simple, bouncy, and clever with nary a sweeping theme to be found
anywhere. It’s a short, sweet exercise in good old-fashioned
entertainment, with some fun bits of improvisation tossed in for good
measure.
Bee is also a gentle survey of socially awkward teenage
stereotypes like the brainy Asian, the rumpled nerd, and the
inexplicable weirdo. These types are also reflected in the play’s adult
characters, who are wonderfully played at Playhouse on the Square by
Jenny Odle Madden, Michael Gravois, and a sweet-voiced mononym named
TeKay.
Pete Montgomery nearly dominates this strong ensemble as William
Barfee, a gruff Napoleon Dynamite-type who uses an unusual spelling
technique called the “magic foot.” His biggest competition, both as a
speller and as an actor, comes from Nicole Renee Hale, whose adorable
take on the tragic Olive Ovstrovsky is notable for being the only
three-dimensional human on stage among all the caricatures. Laura
Stracko and Lili Thomas are also notable as the politically active but
speech-impared Logainne Schwartzandgrubenierre, and Marcy Park, a
Jesus-obsessed Catholic school girl who speaks six languages and can
twirl a baton with the best of them.
With songs like “I’m Not that Smart” and “My Unfortunate Erection,”
Bee is a repository of teenage anxiety, and for the most part,
director Dave Landis gets things right. There are some occasional
missteps and it’s truly unfortunate that such a tight one-act has been
marred with an intermission. Oh well. I guess you’ve got to sell those
season subscriptions some time.
