David Greig's The American Pilot, now at Manhattan Theater Club, pits a bunch of really stupid people -- villagers in an Eastern country where English is not spoken -- against an equally stupid American pilot whom they have discovered with a broken leg and brought to a hut in their village. Would people who don't speak each other's language keep screaming insistently at each other as if the noise alone would communicate the idea? It's not rational, not a survival tactic for villagers or soldier.
Somehow they all do not understand simple physical gestures either. There is little compassion, and the petty chieftain is cruel, then equivocates, and the soldier only shouts and provokes. The play is a pale shadow of Brendan Behan's The Hostage, which explored a similar subject: what do you do with an enemy combatant? Costumes by Ilona Somogyi, set by Derek McLane and lighting by Ryan McMahon are all just fine. Perhaps director Lynne Meadow could have found some moments for empathetic sensitivity, but she's staged the play quite well, especially the exciting, dramatic punch line, an unforgettable image, which adds up to "Don't fuck around with Hopalong Cassidy!"
