Theatergoers know they’re in trouble when set design is the most believable part of the evening. That’s not to denigrate Atkin Pace, whose insta-pulpit was a highlight of last year’s overrated Cantorial, and whose middle-income row house in The Aunts is carefully detailed right down to phone plugs and wall sockets. No, Mr. Pace has created a real home. Unfortunately, playwright Gary Bonasorte has filled it with artificial people.
Hardbitten Meg (Bethel Leslie), temporarily escaping her unhappy marriage, has taken up residence with her freaky sister Nan (Ann Wedgeworth). Poor Nan needs tons of emotional support because her cancer-ridden husband lies near death in their bedroom. Also dropping by to lend a hand (and eat everything in sight) is niece Pita (Mia Dillon), the most amiable of the three because she expects an imminent proposal from her beau, Louis.
Much of the plot concerns itself with Nan’s idea of baking marijuana-stuffed brownies in order to ease her husband’s suffering. This, of course, leads to the inevitable straitlaced-ladies-getting-high-for-the-first-time scene, which inevitably progresses from blithe spirits to dreary sniping. Mr. Bonasorte’s construction isn’t bad; he’s worked out the proper connections between characters and leads each to an intelligent, reasonable resolution, but the whole enterprise never takes off.
Act one, in fact, is downright dull, what with few good laughs and characters more type than true. But worse plays than this have redeemed themselves by pulling early exposition into coherent focus. The Aunts raises the stakes by bringing in Meg’s husband, (Christopher Wynkoop) with some ugly secrets and much-needed fireworks, but these soon fall away and we’re left with the same grating prating.
As she did in her celebrated stint as Mary Tyrone in Long Day’s Journey into Night, Bethel Leslie gets all the moves down without ever moving us. There’s something cold about her approach that goes beyond the brittleness of roles like Mary or Meg. Still, Ms. Leslie’s restraint may be counted a blessing when compared to Ann Wedgeworth’s Ann. True to her insufferable character, Ms. Wedgeworth had me climbing the walls after five minutes. The playwright may be commended for trying to dimensionalize such a pathetic creature, but when he fails to make us empathize, we’re left with more headache than heartache.
If Nan brings to mind the most excessive of Tennessee Williams’s battered belles (incredibly, the recently resuscitated Orpheus Descending also offers an oddball, widow-in-waiting with an upstairs hubby who signals for his medicine), at least Pita would fit comfortably in a Beth Henley confection. Mia Dillon’s bubbly presence is a tonic, and she makes the most of a good moment when her matrimonially obsessed Pita fantasizes about her impending nuptials. Christopher Wynkoop ably portrays Meg’s cheating husband, a role surprisingly better written than it might have been.
When creating a play that involves potentially cartoonish protagonists, one must be prepared to push them hard towards jokes or melodrama. Without that boost, one risks contriving a flat set piece—a comedy without laughs, a drama without fire. Result? The Aunts.
