Mobtown's 'The Pillowman': Kiddie Lit Gone Bad

◊◊ out of five.  2 hours, 35 minutes, plus intermission.  Contains adult language, violent themes, physical violence, gun shots and onstage smoking. 

The Pillowman was a critical and financial success on Broadway a couple seasons back, a rarity for a straight play.  Part of its allure was its starry cast, I'm sure, but much of the interest was generated from the fact that Martin McDonagh had created an even rarer thing: a thriller for the stage.  The story, which centers on the interrogation of an author who writes gruesome children's fables and the recent rash of murders that parallel his fanciful tales, is one ripe with thriller possibilities.  And in fact, those stories, described at length in the Mobtown Players production which opened recently, are fairly grotesque and call to mind some rather unsavory images. 

Truth be told, as all of the local theatre companies announced their current seasons, Mobtown doing The Pillowman was among my top five most looked-forward to shows of the year.  If anyone can do this dark, quirky piece justice locally, Mobtown could, especially at the hands of one of this city's most talented directors, Alex Willis.  Unfortunately, my excitement was quickly quelled as this shockingly static, boring production unfolded in front of me.

Readers who follow my criticism and other articles know that I am equally thrilled and disappointed by lavish productions as I am with a barebones staging.  In many cases, less is more - I enjoy being engaged by theatre that asks me to bring something to the table.  That this production is of the barebones, budget-on-a-shoe-string variety is no surprise.  Mobtown Players is a master company at emphasizing text and story over overwrought production values.  However, they also usually know when to bring a little more pizzazz to a production, and that is something sorely missed in this Pillowman. 

Were knowing lines and copious amounts of stage make up and blood enough to make a play interesting, this show would win many awards.  But that is certainly not enough.  Those lines need to have oomph, style, and character.  Save for one actor in the cast of four, most lines are delivered in a bizarre monotone as if the cast were in a drug induced near-slumber.  Others, delivered by Dave Gamble as the "good cop" interrogator, are given in such a way that suggests that the actor is trying to be humorously off the cuff, but really doesn't know his lines.  Mr. Gamble is so nonchalant in his every word, gesture and very presence, that while he might be going for sarcastic, droll, or even just being a prickish, arrogant man, he is really just a boring jerk who stutters through his lines and covers it with a few actor-ish gestures.   

Of the monotone variety, one actor might be relieved of some of the blame.  Todd Krickler (absolutely amazing in Fat Pig earlier this year) plays Michal the retarded (the playwright's word not mine) brother of the story writer.  Perhaps Mr. Krickler has been directed that a one note, slow delivery equals a mentally challenged character.  And though the lines themselves seem to indicate extreme emotional swings, Krickler remains flatline - slow and steady, in this case, stops the race.  It doesn't help that his chief relationship with his brother-writer has absolutely no chemistry or feeling good or bad.  Again, the lines indicate that the playwright wants us to feel for these two social misfits in a totalitarian state, but I literally thought to myself on more than one occasion, "who cares?"  The brother, underplayed to the point of bland oatmeal by Michael Byrne Zemarel, should have a connection with his sibling, and we need to feel it.  Sadly, Mr. Zemarel speaks with an odd cadence, and at a truly unwavering tone, including when he yells.  Worse yet, not only do we feel nothing between the brothers (even when they come face-to-face with profound tragedy), we feel nothing about our protagonist. 

I suppose one should recognize that Mr. Zemarel has the lion's share of lines, including a couple of lengthy storytelling monologues.  He knows them apparently very well.  But knowing what to say isn't even half the battle.  He shows a surprising lack of character, and even looks bored several times throughout the evening.  And in a play that asks some serious questions about the moral and societal obligations of art and artists, even his yelled out pleas to keep his stories in print fall flat.  For a life or death situation, there is virtually no fight in him to save the one thing his life will leave behind on this planet.  To be fair, Mr. Zemarel does a convincing scream of agony during offstage beatings, and he is totally convincing when nursing his wounds. 

Of the entire company, only Noel Schively, as the venomous, staunchly opinionated "bad cop", seems to understand this play.  He brings so much character to the stage, and he literally offers this production's only thrills.  His edgy, moody seething line readings are underscored by a very realistic, very scary sense that this man is a powder keg, and we have less than an inch of fuse left before he blows.  The moments when he is allowed to actually take action are fraught with tension and excitement - once when he beats the writer to the floor and chokes him into submission, and once when he almost gleefully hooks up his prisoner to what appears to be a car battery and a ominous switch.  He also makes the most of the evening's most interesting plot twist.  Suffice it to say this character is much more than he seems.

In the original production, as these tales of abuse and murder are told, actors pantomimed suggestive versions of the printed word - that is they weren't literal, but theatrically stylized.  These gave the audience a compelling visual to go along with what they were hearing, and were especially helpful in putting a sweet child's face to the cruelly murdered child that was killed "in reality."  That element is not in this production.  While I am sure there are many, many viable ways to stage this play (the text is rich with possibility), a lack of visual makes this play little more than a book-on-tape. 

Regardless of the fact that I disagree with Ms. Willis' artistic choice not to include any gruesome visual, and I do "get" what she is going for, her direction remains an enigma for its amazing lack of content.  In a play that runs over two and half hours, which really feels much longer, it is not a good idea to several extended scenes where the actors never move from defined spaces.  Perhaps this style would have worked better with better actors in the roles.  Perhaps the author character telling us his stories sitting on a stool in a spotlight would have been more interesting with an emotional reading.  And perhaps the claustrophobia of a prison cell might have worked better with lighting that isolates.  Neither Skylar Robaczewski's wide open set design - that stage has never looked bigger to me - nor Bob Dover's lighting - so colorful and bright and in direct opposition to the dark themes of the play, help to answer these unknowns.  We will never know. 

Were this production only sound recorded, you'd get as much out of it as seeing it live.  One could close his eyes and be as (un)satisfied with the storytelling.  For stories so graphically described, and so morally upsetting, one would hope to be moved in some fashion.  Not so here.  As someone who commutes and occasionally puts in a book on tape, I'm glad this isn't one.  I'd be asleep at the wheel.

PHOTOS: Courtesy of Mobtown Players.  TOP to BOTTOM: Dave Gamble, Michael Byrne Zemarel, Noel Schively; Todd Kickler and Michael Byrne Zemarel; Noel Schively and Michael Byrne Zemarel.

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