Theatre in Review: Evening at the Talk House (The New Group at Pershing Square Signature Center)Evening at the Talk House could be the title for almost any Wallace Shawn play; time and again his characters unburden themselves at length in monologues, pursuing dubious conclusions with faulty logic and exuding hatred and/or self-loathing. Shawn is the American theatre's very own Jeremiah, routinely testing the audience's patience with apoplectic predictions of doom. His plays can be so bleak and punitive that he makes Neil LaBute look like Georges Feydeau. This time out, however, he has taken a different approach, embedding his Hobbesian conclusions about humanity in a briefer, more muted format. It's a salutary change that provides plenty of chilling food for thought for a cold winter's night. The Talk House is a club that caters to people working in the theatre, presumably in New York. It's a pleasantly old-fashioned place; think of the Players Club crossed, perhaps, with the Algonquin Hotel in its New Yorker glory days. Robert, a playwright, once was a regular, as was the cast and crew of his most recent play, Midnight in a Clearing with Moon and Stars. Alas, it didn't have much of a run and now, ten years later, Robert is the showrunner for a beloved TV situation comedy -- incidentally starring Tom, who also played the lead in the play. The occasion at the Talk House is a reunion of the old Midnight crowd, attended to by Nellie, who runs the place, and Jane, an aspiring actress stuck in the long-running role of waitress. As drinks and snacks are served, the atmosphere is chatty, convivial, and pleasantly reminiscent. Even so, there are many unsettling intimations. The Talk House is in danger of closing, having lost its clientele; the city's theatre scene has apparently faded away, which is seen by everyone as the sad but inevitable result of changing times. Indeed, everybody seems to have opted for commerce over culture: Ted, once a noted composer, now turns out advertising jingles; Annette, previously a wardrobe mistress, provides tailoring services to the wealthy. And Robert, speaking like no playwright I've ever met, dismisses his stage career, saying, "What exactly was 'theatre,' really, when you actually thought about it? You'd have to say that it was utterly and irreducibly about a small group of humans sitting and staring at another small group of humans -- an animal process -- an animal process that completely lacked art, not to mention, for my money, charm, and that was fundamentally no less mindless than what dogs do or what cows do, an animal business of sniffing and staring." There are other discomfiting clues: The political system has devolved into a series of elections held every three months, resulting in a game of musical chairs focusing on an indistinguishable pair of leaders, one forever replacing the other. The city is prone to blackouts. Then Bill, an agent, complains, "This Program of Murdering is growing faster than any other program," and, Annette frankly admits to taking part in "targeting," which sounds like an arrangement in which citizens agree to set up apparent terrorists for killing; think of it as an all-volunteer drone program. "In my case they were in Malaysia," Annette adds. "A majority of them made a living by herding sheep. When they weren't being trained in the use of explosives." She then defends her actions, helping to get rid of undesirables, as roughly parallel to the human body eliminating waste. Once again, Shawn stakes out risky territory; where other playwrights denounce racism, homophobia, and income inequality, positions that they can be fairly sure their audiences share, the playwright takes direct aim at liberal, consciously right-thinking Americans -- i.e., New York theatregoers -- who rarely give a moment's thought to a government anti-terror policy that, all too often, ends in the slaughter of innocents. One sees these stories in the newspaper nearly every day -- but who among us doesn't quickly turn the page, eagerly seeking out the latest juicy Washington scandal? And still the horrifying details pile up. Dick, once a gifted actor, now on the skids, appears in pajamas and a tweed coat, his face disfigured by a purple bruise; he is hiding out at the Talk House from his friends, who have taken to beating him up regularly. And well-known people are suddenly dying randomly, of poisoning, in restaurants and other public places. It seems that there is no horror that can't be dismissed with a sad look and a what-can-you-do shrug -- as long as it is happening to someone else. Evening at the Talk House is really a warning in the form of a play: Be wary of how much evil you can tolerate in the name of self-protection; the corruption will be deep and long-lasting. A play like Evening at the Talk House, with its dystopian vision of America tomorrow or the next day, usually hinges on how well the playwright draws on the details of how we live right now, and it must be noted that some of Shawn's ideas simply don't resonate: The idea of a dying theatre scene seems rather odd given that every playhouse in the city is filled. (The play's venue, Pershing Square Signature Center, is one of the most vibrant in the city.) Similarly, the notion of a populace being tranquilized by a television diet consisting of nothing but silly sitcoms hardly reflects the state of the medium, which now attracts many of our best dramatic writers, resulting in a major spike in quality.) And if the concept of a government recruiting everyday citizens to help eradicate terrorists on the other side of the globe is suggestive of a widespread breakdown of morality, it also seems awfully impractical. Still -- at least in part because we are living through a period of unprecedented upheaval, Evening at the Talk House casts a spell of creeping dread, aided by a wildly varied cast that includes the reliable character actors Jill Eikenberry, Larry Pine, and Michael Tucker; the sometime drag artist and cabaret performer John Epperson; and the brash comic actress Claudia Shear. The standouts are Matthew Broderick, as Robert, and Annapurna Sriram as Jane. They were once lovers, and, when a blackout hits and the others repair to another room, Robert and Jane remain, lighting candles and talking about the past. Jane recalls how, when her acting career went south, she embraced the government killing program, going on location to eliminate her targets; she makes her confession in a burst of disgust. All Robert, who wouldn't mind rekindling their flame, can say is, "So you don't get pleasure from reliving the past? For me, that's the greatest pleasure in life. The past was great, and I love to think about it." The director, Scott Elliott, handles the diverse cast well, and also provides a pre-show cocktail party where the audience mingles with the actors. (On tap is sparkling water in an alarming variety of colors, plus marshmallows and other gooey candies.) Derek McLane's faux-brick setting, with the audience seated on two sides, is effectively conceived to make us feel like we're part of the party. The space is also lined with posters from theatre productions famous and obscure. Until the later scenes, when candlelight takes over, Jennifer Tipton's lighting maintains a festive atmosphere. Jeff Mahshie's costumes make perfectly clear who among the characters is thriving and who is not. There is no sound design; the only music comes from Epperson, who occasionally plays a tune on the piano. Long before the set has been plunged into darkness, it is clear that everyone at the Talk House lives in a kind of moral fog, blind to the consequences of their actions. In its best moments, Shawn has us wondering exactly how much daylight there is between us and the people he has created. -- David Barbour 
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