Opposites attract
Beauty, in two brand-new plays, is in the eye of the beholder
BY DAVID MCKEE
"Las Vegans" sound like the inhabitants of some alien planet where extreme vegetarianism reigns. Erica Griffin's Spearminted (Las Vegas Little Theatre) stars the two most visible subspecies of Las Vegan: 11 (Mario Mendez), a street-corner sign twirler, and Piph (Erin Marie Sullivan), a stripper. They meet not-so-cute when 11 wanders onto Maryland Parkway into the path of Piph's car, late one Thanksgiving. He's been reduced to living with his grandmother and Piph, having turned 35, has been demoted to the Spearmint Rhino morning shift. Ah, the glamour of life in Sin City.
Since 11 can't seem to recall his identity, Piph -- short for (metaphor alert!) "epiphany" -- takes over as his primary caregiver. Smitten, 11 moves in, hoping to graduate from her couch to the bedroom. But since Piph hasn't come clean about her day job, he's heading for a rude shock ... as is she.
After two prior disappointments, LVLT's New Works Competition has a legitimately good play in Spearminted. Griffin not only sustains interest in just two characters for 130 minutes, she's devised an intriguing structure that entwines their destiny from the start. When not together, 11 and Piph engage in conversations (sometimes heard in voice-over) with unseen and unheard interlocutors, but seem to obliquely answer each other. These are, to borrow a Stephen Sondheim lyric, parallel lines that meet.
Griffin seems to have invented a new genre: screwball tragedy. Her literate but outrageous sense of humor once again enables her to slip ambitious themes (for instance, whether personal identity is innate or constructed; the importance of fantasy) into one's intellectual bloodstream virtually without notice. This ability to be both cosmic and individually specific is a rare gift, although her protagonists sometimes deliver too-sophisticated witticisms that betray authorial ventriloquism. Also, whether intended or not, 11's self-righteous male feminism just seems like patriarchy in drag.
Director/designer Shawn Hackler's affectionate, flowingly paced, impeccably produced staging enhances the contrapuntal weave of Griffin's writing, but he's also destabilized it. Rail-thin and angular, Sullivan contrasts sharply with Mendez's teddy-bearish "lovable loser" slump. But it's like the mating dance of an egret and a turtle: Piph's an airhead, with ditzy mannerisms and a helium-fueled voice to match. So extraordinarily bizarre is Sullivan's "tour de farce," you can't take your eyes off her. Thankfully, Mendez doesn't try to match her quirk for quirk, but he's overshadowed until 11's emotional defenses ultimately collapse, to gut-wrenching effect. The real scene-stealer is Thomas Chrastka, bringing deadpan humor to several background roles, which include a corpse and a macaw.
Another premiere, Ernest Hemmings' Bro (TSTMRKT), like Spearminted, deals with how we're conditioned to perceive beauty. At its center are two emotionally infantile pals, Cosmo (Alex Olson) and Craig (Shane Cullum). Cosmo has drunkenly bedded his XXL friend Rebecca (Sue McNulty) and the damage to his self-esteem is worse than the hangover. A subsequent "friends with benefits" arrangement might become more serious were it not for the harsh peer pressure represented by Craig.
Dropping a Scarface-sized quotient of F-bombs, Hemmings mercilessly, hilariously, flawlessly captures "bromance" dynamics, his dialogue not sounding "written" but as though overheard from the next barstool. Zingers like "you're harder than Chinese algebra" feel perfectly off the cuff. (Cullum nails them like nobody's business.) It's ribald, bruisingly real and almost unrelentingly funny, even if director Hemmings is clearly too close to his script to do it full justice.
The first act is a daring success: a slow buildup to Rebecca's entrance. Act 2, however, settles into a familiar rom-com path and even finds Hemmings employing awkward monologues to advance the plot. The men's casual nastiness toward Rebecca would seem to dictate an unhappy ending. But where Spearminted sticks to its guns, concluding very ambiguously, Bro panders. We buy the pro forma final clinch only because of Rebecca's likeable personality and the vulnerability of McNulty's performance.
It's her best work yet: deeply felt, unusually casual and sweet, even sexy. We feel Rebecca's pain. But there's guy trouble: One believes Cullum completely and Olson not at all. The straight man gets the laughs because Cullum plays the situation while Olson goes for the joke, heavily overworking Cosmo's dorkiness along the way. Olson does comedy; Cullum just is, especially in the second act, where the breathtaking cruelty that underlies his incorrigibly inappropriate behavior emerges with a vengeance.
Like Hemmings' direction, the lighting is patchy and the sets have to be taken on faith. However, you'll probably enjoy three-fourths of Bro and grant papal indulgence to the rest.
Spearminted Thursday-Saturday, 8 p.m., Sunday, 2 p.m., through May 13; Las Vegas Little Theatre, 3920 Schiff Drive, 362-7996, $14-$15. Bro Thursday-Saturday, 8 p.m., through May 5; Onyx Theatre, 953 E. Sahara Ave. No. 16, 732-7225, $15-$20
Since 11 can't seem to recall his identity, Piph -- short for (metaphor alert!) "epiphany" -- takes over as his primary caregiver. Smitten, 11 moves in, hoping to graduate from her couch to the bedroom. But since Piph hasn't come clean about her day job, he's heading for a rude shock ... as is she.
After two prior disappointments, LVLT's New Works Competition has a legitimately good play in Spearminted. Griffin not only sustains interest in just two characters for 130 minutes, she's devised an intriguing structure that entwines their destiny from the start. When not together, 11 and Piph engage in conversations (sometimes heard in voice-over) with unseen and unheard interlocutors, but seem to obliquely answer each other. These are, to borrow a Stephen Sondheim lyric, parallel lines that meet.
Griffin seems to have invented a new genre: screwball tragedy. Her literate but outrageous sense of humor once again enables her to slip ambitious themes (for instance, whether personal identity is innate or constructed; the importance of fantasy) into one's intellectual bloodstream virtually without notice. This ability to be both cosmic and individually specific is a rare gift, although her protagonists sometimes deliver too-sophisticated witticisms that betray authorial ventriloquism. Also, whether intended or not, 11's self-righteous male feminism just seems like patriarchy in drag.
Director/designer Shawn Hackler's affectionate, flowingly paced, impeccably produced staging enhances the contrapuntal weave of Griffin's writing, but he's also destabilized it. Rail-thin and angular, Sullivan contrasts sharply with Mendez's teddy-bearish "lovable loser" slump. But it's like the mating dance of an egret and a turtle: Piph's an airhead, with ditzy mannerisms and a helium-fueled voice to match. So extraordinarily bizarre is Sullivan's "tour de farce," you can't take your eyes off her. Thankfully, Mendez doesn't try to match her quirk for quirk, but he's overshadowed until 11's emotional defenses ultimately collapse, to gut-wrenching effect. The real scene-stealer is Thomas Chrastka, bringing deadpan humor to several background roles, which include a corpse and a macaw.
Another premiere, Ernest Hemmings' Bro (TSTMRKT), like Spearminted, deals with how we're conditioned to perceive beauty. At its center are two emotionally infantile pals, Cosmo (Alex Olson) and Craig (Shane Cullum). Cosmo has drunkenly bedded his XXL friend Rebecca (Sue McNulty) and the damage to his self-esteem is worse than the hangover. A subsequent "friends with benefits" arrangement might become more serious were it not for the harsh peer pressure represented by Craig.
Dropping a Scarface-sized quotient of F-bombs, Hemmings mercilessly, hilariously, flawlessly captures "bromance" dynamics, his dialogue not sounding "written" but as though overheard from the next barstool. Zingers like "you're harder than Chinese algebra" feel perfectly off the cuff. (Cullum nails them like nobody's business.) It's ribald, bruisingly real and almost unrelentingly funny, even if director Hemmings is clearly too close to his script to do it full justice.
The first act is a daring success: a slow buildup to Rebecca's entrance. Act 2, however, settles into a familiar rom-com path and even finds Hemmings employing awkward monologues to advance the plot. The men's casual nastiness toward Rebecca would seem to dictate an unhappy ending. But where Spearminted sticks to its guns, concluding very ambiguously, Bro panders. We buy the pro forma final clinch only because of Rebecca's likeable personality and the vulnerability of McNulty's performance.
It's her best work yet: deeply felt, unusually casual and sweet, even sexy. We feel Rebecca's pain. But there's guy trouble: One believes Cullum completely and Olson not at all. The straight man gets the laughs because Cullum plays the situation while Olson goes for the joke, heavily overworking Cosmo's dorkiness along the way. Olson does comedy; Cullum just is, especially in the second act, where the breathtaking cruelty that underlies his incorrigibly inappropriate behavior emerges with a vengeance.
Like Hemmings' direction, the lighting is patchy and the sets have to be taken on faith. However, you'll probably enjoy three-fourths of Bro and grant papal indulgence to the rest.
Spearminted Thursday-Saturday, 8 p.m., Sunday, 2 p.m., through May 13; Las Vegas Little Theatre, 3920 Schiff Drive, 362-7996, $14-$15. Bro Thursday-Saturday, 8 p.m., through May 5; Onyx Theatre, 953 E. Sahara Ave. No. 16, 732-7225, $15-$20
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