The same audiences who make the mistake of assuming they are watching another quickly dated, political-themed comedy during its first act will be the ones howling in outrage when the stakes get serious—very, very serious—in its second. George Brant's reputation is based in his sleight-of-hand narrative, however, and playgoers gulled by his snappy repartee and physical hijinks have nobody but themselves to blame. The prologue introduces us to soccer mom Deb Marshall in her cozy kitchen, cooking up a recipe requiring her to don a gas mask upon its completion. In the next scene, we hear her describe her neighbors' funeral for the family dog. Soon we learn that the unfortunate canine met his demise after accidentally eating the poisoned cake Deb baked for its owner. Since we are in Alaska, and the intended victim is a female front-runner for government office bearing an uncanny resemblance to 2012 vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin (a deliberate distraction on the playwright's part), we chuckle—even applaud—our plucky housewife honoring the memory of her feminist-activist mother by turning assassin. We also laugh as Deb, clearly out of her element, staggers clumsily around the room wearing a single snowshoe, plucks gingerly on a guitar while crooning a tone-deaf rallying anthem, and acquires high-powered firearms. We nod approval when she destroys both her own and her (another distraction) daughter's communication devices—smartphone-addicted teenagers need to interact more with their immediate environment, right? We are so busy guffawing when she insists that young Hannah—who wants no part of her mother's deranged scheme—summon up a commensurate hostility by immersing herself in the enemy's manifesto ("Mama bears protect their cubs! Let me hear you ROAR") that we barely recognize in this regimen hints of the indoctrination known as brainwashing. When Deb's obsessive schemes grow to include her foe's adolescent offspring, though, we suspect that this might not end well, but by then, it's too late. Megan Carney directs a trio of actors navigating Brant's shivery boundaries between slapstick farce (high marks to violence designer David Blixt) and stranded-in-the-woods horror with never a misstep—in particular, Taylor Blim as the textspeaking (again, a distraction) Hannah, whose unswerving rationality eventually leaves her no alternative but to take decisive—and fatal—action. Tara Mallen's Deb retains a matronly dignity even in her extremity, and Jenna Ebersberger emerges a suitably clueless rebel-by-expediency, but Blim delves the hidden recesses of her stereotypical persona for intimations of the resolve exercised by youthful conviction. Antigone was a teenager, too, remember.
