The premise of Charles Mee's experimental comedy is laudable: compress a lifelong romantic relationship (and, metaphorically, all relationships) into its high and lowpoints -- first meeting, restaurant date, sharing of cultural signposts and sexual appetites, dish-smashing fight, mournful farewells, reunions, and resigned resumptions. But the execution, by Mee's daughter, Erin, could hardly be clumsier in this New York Theater Workshop staging, which would be a complete disaster if not for the gorgeous, Dali-meets-Magritte set (lit by Klara Zieglerova); and the sheer fearlessness of actress Ruth Maleczech. An amazingly vulgar nude scene for the play's two homely, obese leads might have been shockingly funny in the days before TV's Jerry Springer. Now it's just another embarrassment in this 75-minutes-feels-like-175-minutes evening.
