EDGE on the Net

In Theresa Rebeck’s new "comedy," Our House, at Playwrights Horizons, each character is fighting: The obnoxious TV producer, Wes (Christopher Evan Welch), is shouting the F-word in regards to ratings and rapture. His love interest and station anchorwoman, Jennifer (Morena Baccarin), is F-in’ mad over costumes and Katie Couric.

The shared-home family is full of screamers as well: Alice (Katie Kreisler) is furious with Merv (Jeremy Strong) for eating her food and not paying the bills, while the other two, Grigsby and Vince (Mandy Siegfried and Haynes Thigpen), are stuck in the wrestling-match middle. Finally, there’s the reasonable TV exec, Stu (Stephen Kunken), who would appear to be fighting TV’s descent into chaos.

Lest you think you’ve entered the God of Carnage sequel, the tirades these characters aim their bullets at are not really each other, but Rebeck’s play, an exploitative, condescending mess of outdated madness. Since Rebeck veers toward Mamet as much as possible, and not particularly well, actors scream over each other, on top of each other, and, ultimately, at the audience. Director Michael Mayer, of Spring Awakening fame, does his controlled best to contain the story and give it rhythm, but he loses out over the two-hour vulgar-fest.

Like her previous work The Scene, Rebeck has arrived on, er, the scene about five years too late, this time presenting a play about the dangers of infotainment and Reality TV and the corporate world as if it were a take on the next Twitter-type social network. Speed-the-Plow was more forward-thinking in its recent revival, and that play’s from 1988. Worse, Rebeck’s story of violence equaling-airtime-equaling entertainment doesn’t illuminate the issue; it indulges in it.

Just as this story of a producer and anchorwoman who will do anything for ratings is a caution for our times, Rebeck’s play, which stoops to the same underminded tactics to keep the audience invested, should be a caution for theater audiences. A gorgeous woman half-naked and swearing or enjoying doggy-style desktop love does not automatically a riot make. Neither does splattered blood.

Simply plotted, Wes’s anchorwoman is such a hot property (literally and figuratively), he gives her a Reality TV show to host, which pisses off Stu (in a nice, but wasted performance by Kunken). At the same time, things get ugly when Alice tells Merv he owes over $4,000 to the house, violence ensues, the reporter is called in, and Peter Finch can almost be heard screaming "I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore."

Some absurdly unbelievable hijinks take place (note to all involved who didn’t catch it: If a camera is rolling, a light should be on!), and credibility is thrown out the window and past the ballpark. When the story goes deliberately surreal, it’s, ironically, more believable. Welch does some nice work as Wes, although he’s emotionally too young for the part, neither threatening nor hateful nor charming. Baccarin has a drop-dead gorgeous body, but is saddled with unfunny "on-air" bits, as well as a monologue that builds on the notion that the louder your swearing gets, the funnier it is.

Kreisler is so out-of-control, lean-forward screaming, you’ll be happy when she’s silenced. As for Strong, it’s a tough role, and he manages to find some inner connection to the maddening state. Rebeck’s strongest suit, here and in other works, is outlines; she knows how to write solid beginnings, middles, and ends. (And the sets by Derek McLane follow along nicely, coinciding and blending in when they need to.) As for what’s in between that outline, it’s not profound, it’s not new, and it’s not comedy, black- or otherwise. It’s a cheap shot.

Through June 21 @ Playwrights Horizons, Playwrights Horizons, 416 West 42nd Street, New York, NY. For performance times and more information visit the Playwrights Horizons’ website.