You get off the subway in Astoria, Queens, and you enter a world of middle-class, well-kept row-houses as well as lower-middle-class, multi-story walk-ups. There are many tales behind those doors. Playwright David L. Patterson weaves a delightfully humorous yet warm and, occasionally, passionate story with Finger Painting in a Murphy Bed.
Myra (Susan Guffy), a temp worker, is custodian of her brother, Ludlow (Jeffrey Jones), who is bipolar and, educationally handicapped. They live in a multi-story walk-up. Enter Reggie (Jerry Young), Myra's co-worker, who finds her attractive. Ludlow senses a threat to his life with his older sister and does his best to disrupt the budding relationship. Patterson's tale feels real, the characters are real, and the plot logical. E. Duane Weekly's direction balances each character against the other in an uncomplex, easily understandable set of varying relationships. We've all met these folks somewhere along our life's path. Guffy's Myra is on the economic edge, balancing the time she must spend with her adult-sized, child-like sibling and her need to earn a living to sustain them both. Time is as rare a commodity as money; thus there are always dirty dishes in the kitchen. The living room of the one-bedroom apartment, with its Murphy bed, is unkempt, even a bit littered. But she tries. Life did not spare her any grief, but she handles it well.
Susan Guffy is Myra, and we can feel the character's suffering, her love for her brother, her frustrations, her unmet desires. We have to have compassion for Myra because Guffy brought her so completely to life. When Jeffrey Jones' Ludlow undergoes a seizure, it is so convincing, one wants to call 911. His bipolar mood swings, also, are real. Jones has the right body language, the look and the piercing eyes. Jerry Young's Reggie is thrust into this family with little room to maneuver. Young portrays the utter frustration and building anger of Reggie, who is thrown into competition with the brother. Young reveals Reggie's flaws as well as his tenderness and compassion.
Otherwise, the actors are professional, though an odd decision was evidently made, at some point in the rehearsal process, not to use dialect. Guffy gives us a bit, Young a tad, and Jones nary a breath. What is an enjoyable play, carefully crafted, nicely acted and well centered in the New York milieu, thus loses its final punch: the language of the borough (as the Queens subset of the Brooklynese is wonderfully colorful).
Brenda Leake's and Susy Weekly's set design and decoration are properly run down. The kitchen, with a working sink and vintage refrigerator, feels authentic. Mary O'Brien's costumes fit the characters. John Ivey's lighting works well. Michael Shapiro's music selections between scenes sets the mood appropriately.
The program design and editorial responsibility is shared by Bob Christiansen and Cornell Ellison, two very nice folks. However, I must chastise them for an egregious wrong: the cover of the program is devoid of the playwright's name, as is the production page. Finally, buried in the "Director's Notes," the playwright, David L. Patterson, is mentioned. A serious tsk, tsk to both of you!
