Theatre in Review: Yosemite (Rattlestick Playwrights Theatre)Yosemite begins with a young man digging a hole downstage right. It's pretty big, but it isn't nearly as deep as the one the playwright, Daniel Talbott, has dug for himself. After establishing a creepily compelling premise, he fritters it away, indulging himself in a series of "poetic" arias on the theme of dysfunctional families. Jake, Jer, and Ruby are a trio of siblings, ranging in age from about 12 (Jer) to 18 (Jake). They're out in the woods somewhere -- probably Northern California or Nevada -- near the trailer park where they live. Jake is digging the hole, because their mother has ordered them to bury a package -- which, we quickly learn, contains the body of their infant brother, Nathan. Now, that's a setup, worthy of Tracy Letts in one of his more sulfurous moods, and, for a few minutes anyway, the fact that no details are immediately forthcoming makes it all the more interesting. It's additionally disturbing that the youths are so compliant with their mother's wishes, and are seemingly not all that upset by their task. When they talk, the conversation is oddly off-topic, but refreshingly blunt. After Ruby amuses herself with scathing remarks about an old girlfriend of Jake's ("cock gobbler" is about as nice as it gets), he explodes, savaging his sister with the blunt facts of their family life, reminding her that they live in a trailer with cardboard over the windows. He adds, "You wear cheap ass clothes that the church gives us. We eat a block of cheese every week out of a box from welfare!" Aside from a tendency to lard each sentence with too many "fucks" -- a clear sign that he is struggling to make something heightened out of his characters' limited vocabularies -- Talbott has us primed for some theatrical shock treatment. Instead, he all but lulls us to sleep, for Yosemite is possibly the most static play I've seen all season. Very few details are forthcoming about how the baby died, why their mother wants him buried, and why her children are such willing accomplices. (The death sounds like a case of SIDS, possibly aggravated by neglect; as for the rest, your guess is as good as mine. They're just a bad, bad bunch.) The basic falsity of the entire project is rooted in the notion that neither frostbite nor the fear of exposure and arrest are enough to stop Talbott's characters from talking our collective ears off while they fail to take care of business. (And really, would they carry out this sinister task in broad daylight?) Most of the dialogue is aspirational, intended to expose the characters' dreams for the pitiful, stunted things they are. Jake dreams of moving in with a Korean War vet who has befriended him. Jer dreams of a trip to Disneyland with their grandmother. Ruby talks about Jake's love for J.R.R. Tolkien. It's all supposed to be very evocative and moving, but all I could think was, When are they going to finish burying the baby, for God's sake? Matters are not improved by the appearance of Julie, the rifle-toting nightmare mother who loves to strike a pose, look into the middle distance, and reminisce about her days as Oakland's first paper girl and how her grandmother used to shoot squirrels. This leads to a hysterical shouting match -- many, many more "fuck yous" -- between Jake and Julie, more maudlin reminiscences about the past, and more discussion of Disneyland. At this point, of course, the FBI would have had enough time to organize a dragnet, catch them all red-handed, and drag them off to jail. But in Yosemite, nothing stands between the characters and their epiphanies. Or, as Julie says, with typical acuity, "I believe in the devil. I believe...I believe there are bad things. That bad things...that bad things happen to people." Honey, you've said a mouthful! Talbott is a new name to me, but he's been produced at Rattlestick before and he comes bearing many awards, readings, and grants, so we'll just have to assume that this maudlin, hand-wringing family portrait is the kind of bizarre misfire that strikes every writer once in a while. The director, Pedro Pascal, is hard put to give the action any kind of reality. Seth Numrich acquits himself pretty well as Jake, making his simmering anger believable, and Noah Galvin, working with only a handful of lines, makes Jer into a sorrowful and watchful presence. As Ruby and Julie, both Libby Woodbridge and Kathryn Erbe speak their lines in a narcotized manner that, I guess, is supposed to signal psychological anguish. Raul Abrego's forest set is a fine piece of naturalism, up to and including the photorealistic upstage drop. Joel Moritz's lighting works up an appropriately chilly atmosphere -- although, again, wouldn't it make more sense to stage the action at night? Janie Bullard's sound design features plenty of icy sounds, including wind and hoot owls. Tristan Raines' costumes have the exact look of hand-me-downs further worn by excessive usage and stained with dirt. From all appearances, Yosemite is a deeply sincere piece of work, but, as drama, it is strictly DOA. It's not giving anything away to let you know that by the curtain call, they still haven't buried the baby.--David Barbour 
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