Cherrywood

Cherrywood

Have you ever been to one of those strange parties where everyone seems to be totally self-involved, where every conversation seems to revolve not around an exchange of ideas but around every person talking about, or even to, himself or herself, never really hearing what anyone else is saying, with every discussion turning into strings of semi-non-sequiturs and any real connections seeming to happen almost accidentally? You've been to one of those parties, haven't you?

If you haven't, then here's your opportunity. This particular party is being hosted by the Rude Mechanicals, with an original script by Kirk Lynn, who has been responsible for some of the more provocative plays to come out of Austin in recent years, including the ever-popular Lipstick Traces and the critically acclaimed Requiem for Tesla and How Late It Was, How Late.

"Provocative" actually is an excellent word to describe the entire production. When you enter the Off Center, you're confronted by the facade of a house, complete with a front door and a mailbox (there's nothing in there – at least, not the night I went). When you walk through the door of this über-abode, you're overwhelmed by a Wal-Mart dream: The walls are made of plastic drinking glasses, seemingly thousands of them, and dozens of lamps and fluorescent lights are suspended from the ceiling. There's a kitchen, complete with refrigerator and a dozen or so chairs hanging on a rack, a fully equipped bathroom, a living room with a stereo and dozens of CDs, and a coffee table made out of a crate of glasses turned bottoms up. All of this is the creation of set designer Leilah Stewart, and it's an impressive and original display, as is Robert S. Fisher's sound design, which booms and rocks the house, and Laura Cannon's costume design, a compendium of fur, leather, ruffles, and boots. Director Shawn Sides approaches Lynn's script as if it's meant to be shot out of a cannon. The tempo is relentless, as is the intensity. Her actors, who play a group of unnamed characters, are totally dedicated to her vision, and some manage to raise something believably human above the ferocious fray, including Joey Hood as a party crasher; Robert Pierson, who must set some kind of world record for urinating onstage; and Aron Taylor, who consistently amuses despite consistently garbling what he's saying.

In the end, though, it walked a fine line between working and not working. I was never bored, but neither was I ever really engaged. It seemed like a bunch of people talking real fast and being real cool, throwing things up against the wall and seeing what stuck there. For me, not a lot of it did stick. I couldn't tell you what it was all about, except maybe that people are false and self-centered, nobody really listens, everything is subjective, and nothing really means anything, but hey, at least we can play party games, talk into microphones, dance, claim to be werewolves, and drink milk. Playwright Lynn has subtitled the play "[the modern comparable]," using the adjective "comparable" as a noun, reinventing the language in a way that would make Shakespeare proud. But it prompts the question: What does it mean? A question that certainly could be applied to the entire experience.