Six years ago, Jobsite Theater presented its first production, a double-bill of Howard Brenton's Christie in Love and Harold Pinter's One for the Road. I remember my feelings the night I saw the two shows: something like dismay followed by hope, or exasperation followed by excitement. You see, Christie in Love is a poorly made one-act, and Jobsite exacerbated its failings with a production that was badly acted (and at times inaudible), terribly directed and abominably designed. But just when I'd decided that this new theater troupe had nothing to offer, along came One for the Road: a gut-wrenchingly good script, tightly staged, wonderfully acted, with a perfectly respectable set and fine costumes. I concluded that, after all, Jobsite had promise, and I looked forward to future productions, when ambivalence would give way to consistently good productions, each as successful and professional as One for the Road.That was six years ago. Since then I've had the chance to exult at True West and despair at History of the Devil, to be thrilled by Bloody Poetry and bored stiff by A Girl's Guide to Chaos, to be stirred by The Tibetan Book of the Dead and rendered despondent by The Acropolis Project. And I've come to realize that the ambivalence Jobsite showed in its first production is somehow a key feature of the company. Someone at Jobsite has both terrific and execrable taste. Someone at Jobsite loves both quality and mediocrity. And no matter how many times Jobsite does something really right, this baffling company is sure to follow it with something utterly insignificant.
Consider Steve Patterson's Delusion of Darkness, currently playing at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. This silly, puerile exercise is so faulty in so many respects, I can hardly believe that the company that brought us the sublime Cloud 9 could think it worthy of staging. And when a play is this bad, it naturally affects the acting and direction, which, insofar as they're true to the script, are going to be every bit as miserable. It's painful to watch actors I've admired in past productions — Chris Holcom and Katrina Stevenson, Ami Sallee Corley and Jason Vaughan Evans — fall to the level of this abysmal one-act. Director Sean Paonessa does his best to lend credibility to the concoction, but you know what they say about silk purses and sow's ears. Even Brian Smallheer, who in the past has shown real flair as a designer, has created a bland barroom set that makes the play dull even before it's started. In short, no talent has been left unsullied by this project; and if I weren't so cognizant of Jobsite's split personality, I'd be genuinely worried. But no, I know better: when the evil twin dominates, the good twin is in the wings. Jobsite will have better moments.
About Delusion: it's presided over by Murphy (Corley), a film-noirish detective who warns us not to search for a plot. But there is (sort of) one, anyway: it concerns alien beings who telepathically send orgasmic experiences to "receivers" like blind Cassandra (Summer Bohnenkamp-Jenkins), one of the bar's constant denizens. We watch as Cassandra has one telepathic climax, but that's only a prelude: what she's really waiting for is the signal that will restore her lost sight. As Murphy guides us through the evening's events, and bartender Coral (Stevenson) serves up drinks and attitude, a pair of ghoulish paramedics (Holcom and Evans) run in and out of the action, boasting of the body parts they've been buying and selling. Then the arrogant, hulking Inspector (Michael C. McGreevy) arrives: he's learned that there's a receiver in the neighborhood, and he's out to find her. Various characters shoot the Inspector dead; each time, he gets up again and continues his search. Finally, the Inspector leaves the bar — he's apparently murdered moments later — and the bar is visited (for no readily apparent reason) by a mad bishop and monk (Holcom and Evans redux). Coral serves Murphy a seriously spiked drink, Murphy in a drugged daydream has sex with a giant centipede, and a mother-daughter team (Leah LoSchiavo and Nevada Young Caldwell) have a serious chat about cooking. Finally, the Inspector (not dead) returns, everyone shares a group orgasm, and Cassandra regains her sight. Before the final curtain, everyone contorts to weird music.
Now, I've got nothing against surrealism — but as with any other literary genre, there's quality goods and schlock. What's wrong with Delusion is that the dialogue is tedious, the acting never impresses (with the exceptions of McGreevy as the Inspector and Leah LoSchiavo as the garish matron), and, no, the spectacle of actors faking orgasms on stage is not so shocking as to be worth the price of admission. Further, for all the illegal drugs in the show, it's a high school idea of hallucinogenic hi-jinks that dominates the action just as it's an adolescent vision of sex that keeps bodies writhing. What we want from a work of art, whether surrealist or naturalistic, is insight into our condition; but you'd have to be 16 to find anything new or important in Delusion of Darkness. And maybe that's the key to the worst plays in Jobsite's repertoire: more than anything else, these clunkers are juvenile. Like the kung-fu exploits of the heroes in The Acropolis Project, they just don't have much resonance for adults.
I've left out some aspects of Delusion of Darkness: the drills that the paramedics use on their "third eyes," the tale of a druggie who shot herself up with peanut butter, the woman who comes out of a dressing room with stigmata. I suppose author Patterson has to be praised for his inventiveness, but if there's no significant vision underpinning all these episodes, they're little better than gimmicks. I came out of Delusion — with all its orgasms and hallucinations and strange drinks and simulated sex — profoundly bored. But as I hurried to my car, I knew that this experience was predictive of exactly nothing. Jobsite will bounce back. It always does. That's just its character.
File this one under "Regrets."
But don't be surprised if the next one — or the one after — is as good as you've ever seen.
—mark.leib@weeklyplanet.com or letters@weeklyplanet.com
This article appears in Aug 12-18, 2004.