Theatre in Review: you don't have to do anything (HERE Arts Center) "I forget a lot," says Teddy, the protagonist of you don't have to do anything. "I have a terrible short-term memory." Well, maybe, but in truth that comment is the first move in an elaborate game of Who Do You Trust? On the face of it, Ryan Drake has written a focused account of gay teens struggling with isolation and loneliness in the digital age. That's not exactly untrue, but his characters are cagier than they first appear; they're also surprisingly skilled at psychological brinkmanship. Keep an eye on Teddy, especially: He's sweet but he bears watching. As played by Yaron Lotan with a toothy, goofy smile; eyes popping with wonder and wariness; and the nervous gestures of a baby giraffe, Teddy is the essence of awkward adolescent charm. ("People say I have this incredibly readable face, but I don't think so," he says, unconsciously radiating a half-dozen emotions in succession and earning the evening's biggest laugh.) On the first day of middle school, he is taken up by Clark, another new arrival, and, from the get-go, a disconcertingly odd duck. For one thing, Clark is fifteen and in the seventh grade; for another, he skips the first day of class (including orientation) just for the hell of it. Altogether, he introduces a new and faintly disturbing note into Teddy's thoroughly conventional life. Indeed, Clark is a not-always-welcome agent of change. Teddy, who quietly accepts his attentions, pays a price for their friendship, getting dropped by the popular, soccer-playing set to which he previously belonged. Things get more complicated during a sleepover, when Clark, trying to provoke a rebellious response, prods Teddy to partake in liquor and porn; during the night, he crawls into Teddy's bed, initiating physical contact while insisting he is straight. This sequence, broken down into a series of short blackouts, is a startlingly accurate depiction of two boys fumbling toward (and, simultaneously, away from) some kind of intimacy. The atmosphere is tense with hormones, passive aggression, and anxiety as Clark wheedlingly presses his case, deeply upsetting Teddy, who, nevertheless, can't bring himself to say no. But, because neither Teddy nor Clark have names for their feelings, they inevitably drift apart. Then Clark commits an outrageous act -- an obvious cry for help -- and disappears from school. Over the next few years, as Teddy falls into isolation, trawling the Internet for chat room encounters with guys who are just "experimenting," he hears from Clark, in strangely shifting circumstances. (Clark is in Spain and has a boyfriend; no, he's in a mental hospital; the boyfriend was real, but he is gone.) Teddy finally comes out in college and appears much happier; then again, a humiliating outdoor hookup with an acquaintance -- something we've seen happen to him previously -- hints at a darker reality. As it happens, Clark is not the only practiced liar onstage. Teddy is a highly unreliable narrator, a tricky dramatic device that Drake wields with unusual skill. For most of its running time, you don't have to do anything appears to be about young men on parallel tracks, painfully heading toward self-discovery, but from the beginning, there are oddly discordant notes: Why does Will Dagger, who plays Clark, appear with a mustache and stubble, even in the early scenes? Why, if Teddy's friendship with Clark was such a fitful, one-sided thing, do they keep ending back in each other's orbit? And how to explain the furious, spurned messages Clark leaves on Teddy's phone after the latter cuts him off? It is only when Clark forcefully re-enters the narrative that all becomes clear: Teddy is both a pitiable case and the kind of character Ruth Rendell might appreciate. This elaborate act of misdirection could easily fall apart in the wrong hands -- to make it work, Drake must hold back a great deal of information about Teddy and Clark -- but Ryan Dobrin's direction never misses a nuance, and his cast is equally on-point. Lotan gives Teddy an immense vulnerability -- he sadly asks one of his "straight" online partners, "If I were gay, would you still talk to me? Or still want to fuck me?", getting radio silence for an answer -- with undertones of rage and self-loathing. The immensely skilled Dagger has an understated volatility that understandably rattles Teddy; he's particularly good in online chat sequences, quickly calculating how much to say and how much to obfuscate. Also solid are Andrea Abello as Teddy's airheaded, gossip-loving female friend and Miles Elliot as all of Teddy's unsatisfying hookups. The small-scale production comes with a sensible, flexible design. Cat Raynor's set focuses on Teddy's bedroom, located upstage center, a smart strategy for a basement theatre with bad sightlines. Given the space's low ceiling, Bentley Heydt and Molly Tiede's lighting is efficient. Zack Lobel's video fills the stage with images from Teddy's online erotic life. Christopher Vergara's costumes are appropriate for each character, especially for Elliot's many cameos. Carsen Joenk's music and sound design are appropriately understated. Unfolding during the first two decades of this century, you don't have to do anything still has plenty to say about young gay people who, absorbing the homophobia in the air around them, become their own worst enemies. It's a fine debut for a writer with a deep understanding of his characters' conflicting feelings; when they behave badly, his compassion for them doesn't let them off the hook. Teddy and Clark's struggles are likely to find a sympathetic hearing, especially from young adult audiences; the play should prove popular with university drama programs and gay theatre companies. --David Barbour 
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