According
to the new comedy-drama
at the Soho Playhouse, The
Irish
Curse is
having
a small dick. And indeed, all the characters in the play are of Irish
lineage. Writing as a Jew, I expect Italian-named playwright Marin
Casella
to be likewise writing as an
observer, as it were—even as a documentarian—though I can’t vouch for
his
research; writing as a drama critic, I found the whole thing to be kind
of
silly. The play posits a support group in a Brooklyn church basement,
run by an
afflicted priest, for guys with wee willies to, ah, share and discuss.
Obviously
in a larger sense (no pun intended), the play means to examine the
meaning of manhood in
contemporary American society, using—let’s be serious now—what must
be the very real psychological challenge of having one’s sexually
rejected,
derided or revulsive. And you know what? There’s probably a fascinating
and
provocative play to be written on the subject. But Mr. Casella’s pushes
the
limits of credulity. (My evening's companion was, among other things, a
liberal-minded yet lifelong employee of the Catholic Church, who could
not
imagine the circumstances under which such a group could legitimately
exist in
a church and be run by a clergyman, without being clandestine and
therefore not
entirely legitimate. That said, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Casella
would
claim in response to have read of such a group; but in that case he
leaves too
many questions unanswered.) Also the play is hugely undramatic until
the
end—I won’t spoil the trajectory, for a reason I’ll cite below. For the
most part, it’s written in the manner of Shavian dialectic—no,
seriously,
it is—only with colloquial NYC diction. And the discussion and debate
isn’t all that interesting or insightful. Or surprising.
At
least not to me or my companion.
But
the audience sure loved the dickens out of it. (Pun, I guess, intended.)
For
me, Mr. Casella is writing with surface comic facility—a new millennium
take on the style of Sam Bobrick and Ron Clark, who used to write one
comedy
after another that bombed on Broadway, precisely for being too trivial
for the
venue, but cleaned up in the stock and amateur circuit. Even when
Casella's play
means to become poignant, it doesn’t go very deep. (Pun not wholly intended, but I’m not oblivious to it.)
But
something about The Irish Curse seems to
resonate as a date play—yeah, go figure—and the laughs the night I
attended were consistent and strong. It was a full house at a critic’s
preview,
a lot of comps, some paper, TDF discounts, etc. But even so, that
strong and
unequivocal a group response can’t be faked. Comedy is the most
democratic form
of entertainment there is. If they laugh, it’s funny. The end. That’s why I won’t go near spoilers
here. You might find it funny too. And you know what? No shame if you
do.
The
cast is a mixed bag (its most prominent player, and among its
strongest, is Dan
Butler, aka “Bulldog” on Frasier)
but
they deliver what’s on the page with energy and convincing-enough
conviction under the efficient if unremarkable direction of Matt
Lenz.
And
beyond that, I have dick-all to say…