Theatre in Review: C.O.A.L. (Confessions of a Liar) (59E59)

	Jackson Tanner, Lisa Bostnar. Photo: Carol Rosegg

Today's math problem involves fractions: C.O.A.L. is a one-person show for four actors: Explain.

It's pretty simple, even to those who, like me, are numbers-challenged: C.O.A.L. has one narrator, but the text is divided among four actors: There are two male-female pairs, one in middle years, and one in their 20s. You could, I suppose, have any combination of actors, for the cast members of Craig Baldwin's production do not represent different aspects of the same character. They are merely four voices, each speaking for the same person. They constantly hand off the text to one another; at times, they even complete each other's sentences. If that seems confusing -- well, obfuscation is what playwright David Brian Colbert has in mind.

"Ya see, I'm a liar, y'all." So we are told by Coal, the name assumed by our narrative quartet for the purposes of spinning the yarn that makes up most of the evening. But it takes quite a while before we fully get a grasp of who that "I" really is. Instead, we get an amusing demonstration of the necessity of social lies: Two of the performers act out a meeting between a young man and a woman named Miss Susie. The latter, when asked how she is, replies, "You know me...twice as happy today as yesterday and half as pleased as I'll be tomorrow!" We are then informed of her true status: "Susie just had her second miscarriage this year and I know she knows her son was just caught fellating the captain of the football team under the school bleachers."

If that last comment seems a little crude and homophobic, consider the fact that the story takes place in small-town West Virginia, the kind of tight-knit, conservative Southern community where the social system consists of a ruling class of old money, followed by new money and several middle levels before ending with the working class, or, even worse, someone from "out of town, or, God forbid, out of state." After a bit of local color, our narrator's identity begins to clarify: He is a young male from one of the lowest social tiers. His father works in the coal mines and drinks too much; in one particularly mortifying sequence, he recalls finding the older man passed out on the couch, stinking of liquor and God knows what else, since he has evacuated from every possible orifice. Coal's mother is a largely out-of-it church lady; the boy's one attempt to get her to sensibly explain Christian dogma is an outright disaster.

Anyway, Coal takes up lying early and often, sticking to untruths even when they are obvious, as in a degrading episode in which he makes a fool of himself in a game of dodgeball. The one thing he excels at is swimming, but, while still in grade school, he meets an even more profound liar in the person of Mike, his coach, who has a thing for young boys. For the first time, he is being instructed in dishonesty by an adult. As it happens, Mike is a world-class denier.

After that, Coal drops off the swimming team, gets emancipated at 15, and moves out of the house. In the play's cleverest scene, he visits Mike at swimming practice and sees himself replaced in the coach's affections by Jimmy, a hated rival. (Jimmy is a rich kid and a bit of a bully.) The coach's style is so assured, he lays claim to Jimmy in front of Coal and the boy's oblivious mother. Later, when Jimmy rebels and goes to the police, he tries to pull in Coal as a corroborating witness. This is the moment when Coal uses the skills acquired over a lifetime to punish Jimmy and escape his past forever.

Largely an exercise in the use of an unreliable narrator, C.O.A.L. is never as gripping as it wants to be, largely because the fairly commonplace story is overshadowed by the four-in-one narrative device. We should be feeling the gulf between what Coal says and what he hides; the words should percolate with troubling emotions held back for too long. Instead, all four actors speak in the same blandly assured voice, offering the same insincere smiles. The result is monotonous, and surprisingly lacking in tension. Coal never acquires flesh-and-blood reality because he remains the product of a playwright's device.

Even if they are largely hamstrung by the task at hand, the cast makes for pleasant company. It's especially good to see Lisa Bostnar, a former mainstay of the Mint Theater Company, released from period corsets and tackling a contemporary role. The younger cast members, Mirirai Sithole and Jackson Tanner, are both engaging presences. At the performance I attended, the fourth role was taken by the author, who blended in seamlessly.

Baldwin's scenic design places the action against a black-and-white mural of tree-covered mountains. In front of this is a screen for Luke Norby's projection design, which features several evocative montages of West Virginia town life as well as plenty of local scenery; it's never a good idea to place actors in front of a large screen, however, as the images will always steal focus. Here, with the oddly indistinct narrator, the actors have to fight to be seen. Cory Pattak's lighting, Elizabeth Caruso's costumes, and Norby's sound design are perfectly fine.

But C.O.A.L. tends to lull when it should disturb and provoke. Coal is so insistent about his insincerity it becomes all too easy to take him at face value. And who wants to listen to a liar all night long? -- David Barbour