Theatre in Review: This is Fiction (InViolet Repertory Theater Company at the Cherry Lane Theatre)At the beginning of This is Fiction, Amy, the heroine, is learning that attaining one's dream can be a nightmare. A writer who has spent years grinding out magazine articles on such searching, world-changing topics as "How the Internet Has Ruined the Blind Date," she's about to have her first novel published. She should be thrilled -- she has a major publishing house offering her a big advance. Instead, she flees an important meeting, running directly into the arms of Ed, a high school English teacher whom she picks up in a coffeehouse. After three days in bed with him, she flees again, gratuitously taking Ed's wallet with her. Somehow, one imagines, this isn't how Kathryn Stockett took the news that Penguin wanted to publish The Help. Anyway, Amy hides out at her childhood home in New Jersey, which is still occupied by David, her father, and Celia, her sister. Celia is a piece of work, a control freak who terrorizes the staff of the local Chinese take-out and rules over her father like a kindergarten teacher with a rod of iron. Her personal prospects are less than stellar; she had a date with a doctor a week earlier, and he hasn't called her. When Amy tries to offer hope, she replies, "If world leaders can take the time out to have an affair, a small-time pediatrician can pick up the phone." Between Celia's kvetching and David's magnificently passive-aggressive behavior -- he complains that Celia hides the liquor bottles on the lower shelves, aware that he'll throw his back out in search of a snootful -- a fair amount of amusement is guaranteed, and This is Fiction looks like a promising effort by first-time playwright Megan Hart. There's a catch, however, and it's the cause of Amy's bizarre and self-destructive behavior. Her novel, We Live on Perfect Street, is a fictionalized account of her childhood, focusing on her alcoholic mother, who died under circumstances Celia and David would rather forget. This triggers a dreary and predictable round of dysfunctional family accusations of the where-were-you-when-I needed-you variety, countered with standard evasions of the why-must-we-talk-about-this sort. Oddly, both David and Celia jump to the conclusion that the novel is the kind in which only the names have been changed, a charge that Amy doesn't seriously refute. This may be why they assume the worst; in Other Desert Cities, the daughter at least lets her family read the book before the warfare begins. If this scene and the hasty, tacked-on ending disappoint, Hart does have a way with a line, and, under Shelley Butler's pacey direction, the four cast members keep things watchable even when the play's credibility is heading south. As Amy, Aubyn Philabum radiates a scattered charm, even when her behavior is at its most selfish and self-aggrandizing. She also retains a steely intelligence throughout. ("She was never scary. Don't exaggerate," says David about his late wife. "She wasn't your mother," Amy points out.) Michelle David has a nice way of distilling Celia's bitterness into laughter while also revealing a certain vulnerability, especially when everyone forgets her birthday. Bernardo Cubría makes a great deal out of the perpetually put-upon Ed. (Reminded once again of her act of robbery, Amy asks, "Can't we just let that go?" "No. It'll pretty much be the formative moment of our relationship," replies Ed, who knows trouble when he sees it.) Richard Masur underplays skillfully as Ed, who will do pretty much anything to avoid an unpleasant conversation. The production plays out on Lauren Helpern's clever set, which stands in for both the family's New Jersey kitchen and one of those coffeehouse-bookstores that attract hordes of young people daily. The rest of the production design, including Ashley Gardner's costumes, Les Dickert's lighting, and Leon Rothenberg's sound and original musical, are all fine. In the end, This is Fiction consists of a couple of sharply written scenes of domestic comedy framing a flatly written and strictly pro forma family confrontation. (Really, it could come from a couple dozen other plays.) Like her heroine, it may be that Hart needed to write this play before moving on; if it's not very satisfying, it nevertheless shows distinct flashes of talent. It will be interesting to see what else she has to offer.--David Barbour 
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