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‘Miss Witherspoon’ @ Theatre in the Square
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW. Grade: C -
In 1981, playwright Christopher Durang turned his seething wit into a ferocious commentary on the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church (“Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All for You”). In 1987’s “Laughing Wild,” he vented his maniacal glee on the Reagan administration and the fumbled AIDS crisis.
With his relentless targeting of pop-culture pinatas (remember Sally Jessy Raphael?) and musical theater cheese, Durang’s acidic worldview felt fresh and smart, and his success gave a generation of subversive, form-shattering theater artists permission to be raucous and irreverent.
But 20 years later, Durang seems as stuck in a rut as his titular “Miss Witherspoon,” who is so dismayed by the state of the universe that she keeps committing suicide, then stubbornly resisting reincarnation in the afterlife. Though director Joe Gfaller’s indefatigable Theatre in the Square ensemble is game for anything the satirist throws at them in his neurotic dissection of mankind’s rotting soul, their nice performances can’t gloss over the fact that Durang has lost his edge.
Miss Witherspoon is really the nursery rhyme nickname of a woman named Veronica (Shelly McCook), who killed herself because she was afraid of the plunge of Skylab. “But at least I got to miss 9/11,” Veronica deadpans in her opening monologue, before dancing off into the cosmos. “If I couldn’t stand Skylab, I definitely couldn’t stand the sight of people jumping out of windows, and then letters with anthrax postmarked from Trenton.”
It’s a chilling beginning to what soon turns into a turgid meditation on world religions, the demise of the nuclear family and the apocalypse. With his trademark theatricality, Durang leavens the despair with endless riffs on Rex Harrison and “My Fair Lady,” Gandalf and Gandhi. Jesus Christ even makes an appearance as an African-American woman in a purple suit and hat (Carol Mitchell-Leon).
While Veronica’s “brown tweed” aura and bad karma doom her to get bounced back to Earth over and over again, what she really desires is the endless sleep of “Jewish heaven,” the “general anesthesia” of nothingness. Given the device of reincarnation, Durang works it to the point of tediousness. Though you wish that he’d put a finer bead on Veronica’s journey — why not focus on one incarnation instead of a handful? — the moment at which the play itself starts to have a nervous breakdown is kind of brilliant. Is Veronica just dreaming, or does she really get the chance to redo her lost opportunities on Earth?
McCook is quite good at toggling between the role of Veronica the narrator and her various incarnations (bonnet-clad baby, abused child, barking dog) — often with split-second timing. Along the way, we are treated to fine performances by Suehyla El-Attar (as Veronica’s sari-clad spiritual guide) — and Robin Bloodworth and Mary Emily O’Bradovich (playing an endless parade of parents and other characters). Though she’s not onstage that much, Mitchell-Leon is terrific as Veronica’s exasperated teacher — and the sassy Christ figure.
In play after play, Durang poses the same question: If God is so loving, why is the world so messed up? That is one of life’s abiding mysteries. Knowing there’s no solution, he suggests that love and forgiveness are the answers. No problem with that. What’s exasperating is that we have to wade through such a convoluted metaphysical mess to get there.
THE VERDICT: Strong acting can’t redeem this messy, undisciplined play.
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