Fathers at a Game
 

Reviewed by Neal Weaver

Trey Nichols’ long one-act begins reasonably enough with two men, Eddie (Luke Baybak) and Moe (Tony Williams), arriving in the bleachers for a high-school football game in which their sons are playing. They talk about the beautiful fall weather, and reminisce about how long they’ve been coming to these games: six years, or since their boys were in junior high. They talk about their wives, and Moe keeps getting Eddie’s wife’s name wrong—till we begin to think this might be significant. There also seems to be some serious rivalry going on, either from the boys on the field, or from their fathers. From time to time, Eddie seems to fall into some kind of trance-like state, and we’re told that he’s in pain from a pulled muscle in his leg. From time to time, Moe suddenly launches  physical attacks on Eddie, but Eddie reacts passively.

A woman’s voice is heard calling out. Eddie insists that it’s “Dixie,” and that she’s calling for help, but Moe insists that he hears nothing, and refuses to acknowledge her existence. Dixie (Wendy Elizabeth Abraham) comes bursting through the scenery, wearing desert combat fatigues, and seemingly grievously wounded. Eddie seems to suggest that Moe is somehow responsible for her wounds, maybe even her death, but Moe is in denial.

Dixie tries to crawl toward them, but Moe keeps pushing her away with his foot, as though we’re witnessing some kind of war-zone flashback.

Then we are launched into some sort of bizarre fantasy, in which Eddie insists that his son is not on the playing field, that, in fact, his son has changed high schools and is playing for some other team. Eddie’s tale seems to suggest that his son has turned into some kind of psychopath, and he totally approves of the fact. He proudly tells us that his son took a steak knife and slashed open Eddie’s leg—and it’s that which pains him, not a pulled muscle. Eddie tears open his trouser-leg and reveals a gruesome and very real wound.

For a while, the piece is intriguing, and one struggles to discern some idea or purpose that would pull together the disparate elements and bring some sort of unity. But after a time, it begins to seem like deliberate mystification or obfuscation. Is Nichols unable to make his intentions clear, or is he willfully concealing them? Watching the piece begins to feel like we’re playing a game with someone who keeps constantly changing the rules on us. It’s a no-win situation.

Director Vesna Hocevar directs with authority, and her work is sometimes gripping, but it’s hard to evaluate it if one can’t divine the playwright’s purpose. Similarly, the actors perform with skill and conviction, but to what end?

An earlier production of this piece received some glowing reviews, and was voted “best of the Fringe,” so apparently this all makes sense to somebody. But not to this writer.

Moving Arts Hyperion Station, 1822 Hyperion Avenue, Silver Lake; Fri., 8 p.m., Sat. & Sun., 5 p.m., through April 27. (323) 472-5646, www.MovingArts.org.