Theatre in Review: Intimacy (The New Group at Theatre Row)

	Austin Cauldwell and Déa Julien. Photo: Monique Carboni.

Thomas Bradshaw is Off Broadway's exploitation king. Just as the writers and directors of exploitation films aim to cash in on sex or violence, subsuming plot, dialogue, and cinematography along the way, Bradshaw only wants to get to the money shot by any means possible. He may have a serious reason for doing so; I cannot say. What I can say is that it is hard to take a play seriously when the two leading characters, apropos of nothing, stand over a toilet, examine the contents, and idly trying to decide if "a black, tarry stool" is evidence of colon cancer before dropping the matter forever.

The cinema reference in the preceding paragraph is appropriate because the plot of Intimacy is driven by Matthew, a teenage suburban dweller who wants to be a film director. Matthew lives with his father, James, a widowed, retired financial manager and born-again Christian. Since this is a Bradshaw play, James' religion means he must be a self-hating hypocrite addicted to pornography. Perusing a "barely legal" magazine, James sees Janet, the daughter of his next-door neighbors, Pat and Jerry (they of the toilet conversation mentioned above). James denounces Janet to her parents; Pat knows all about Janet's career, but Jerry is temporarily unhinged by the news. This cues a fantasy sequence in which Janet appears, naked and urging Jerry to bring himself off while looking at photos of her.

Meanwhile, Matthew is at home, experiencing the joys of frottage with his classmate, Sarah, the daughter of Fred, a contractor who is working on Matthew and James' home. Although married and a father, Fred spends hours cruising gay porn websites; he also comes up with a contrived plan to appear in front of young Matthew with his pants off, revealing himself in nothing but a bright orange thong. To the nonplussed Matthew, Fred says, "I find them to be more comfortable than regular underwear. Besides, I like to look sexy for my wife. Do you like what you see?"

Matthew, a high school senior, doesn't want to attend college, so James gives him $40,000 to launch his directing career. His debut work, Frot in the Neighborhood, is designed to star all of the above characters in various frottage scenarios -- gay, straight, married, and cross-generational. Eventually, other acts are added to the mix because, Matthew ultimately realizes, sex isn't so much about specific acts as it is about intimacy. This is apparently the play's major revelation, although, like everything else in Intimacy, it is delivered with a smirk.

The notion of wild things going on behind small-town closed doors is as old as Peyton Place, and even Bradshaw's accurate observation, that the digital revolution has taken pornography into the living rooms of Middle America, is hardly new. Anyway, sex is not only the great leveler in Intimacy; it brings tranquility and a kind of spirituality. Bradshaw's characters are miserable to the extent that they cannot accept their sexual impulses; once they do, happiness is theirs. (More than once, I was reminded of the '70s era book and film The Harrad Experiment, about an experimental college where the students are only too eager to do their homework, if you know what I mean.) Not that all this ecstasy makes them better people; they still enjoy characterizing Mexicans as lazy banjo players and Jews as big-nosed money grubbers. Also, in the play's one instance of political commentary, Fred notes, "Liberals are interested in creating a toddler society." But whether these moments are germane to the playwright's thesis or if he just can't resist pulling the chains of the New Group's season subscribers is impossible to tell.

"Sometimes, as artists, we have to do things that make us very, very uncomfortable," says Matthew, and I can only imagine what rehearsals for Intimacy must have been like for the ever-game cast assembled by the director, Scott Elliott. Still, they throw themselves into Bradshaw's sex-mad scenario like the troupers they are. A Vassar student making his professional debut, Austin Cauldwell (Matthew) is made to have two spectacular orgasms in the first act, shooting semen all over the set; in the second act, David Anzuelo, who plays Fred, goes down on him. (A bit of career advice for Cauldwell: This is not your typical Off Broadway gig. For example, none of this would ever happen at the Mint Theatre.)

Anzuelo is an affable presence throughout, maintaining his sangfroid even in a scene in which, seated at his laptop watching two boys go at it, he turns and reveals his enormous erection to the audience. Similarly, Ella Dershowitz (Janet) shows nerves of steel in the fantasy scene in which she comes on to her father, and Déa Julien (Sarah) brings a sunny imperturbability to every situation, even when asking Matthew to massage his cold semen onto her back. Among the cast's more familiar faces, Laura Esterman (Pat) and Keith Randolph Smith (Jerry) sail through the discussion of dark stools only to take on a lengthy exchange in which they reveal their mutual love of analingus. As James, Daniel Gerroll is made to purse his lips and look disapproving until he, too, gets in on the action.

Elliott's productions usually come with highly professional production designs, and this one is no exception. (Elliott also provided the costumes.) Derek McLane's amusing set surrounds the action with what appear to be quilted satin walls -- think of a giant headboard -- and a triptych of suburban split-level homes in Necco-wafer shades of blue, pink, and yellow. A single ground plan, consisting of multiple arrangements of furniture pieces, stands in for all the characters' homes, allowing for rapid scenic transitions, aided by the graceful lighting of Russell H. Champa. Olivia Sebesky's video design includes a number of hardcore sex scenes, seen on a computer screen and interwoven with the making of Frot in the Neighborhood. Shane Rettig's sound design is also solid.

In the past, I have faulted Bradshaw his one-dimensional characters and stilted dialogue. I now realize that either a) he doesn't care about such things or b) they are part of his aesthetic approach. Fair enough, if you can stand it for two hours, but it seems a little bit ironic to be talking about intimacy when the stage is filled with cartoons rather than credible characters. (Intimacy, perhaps intentionally, seems to have the plot and character values of a '70s-era stag film; not for nothing do Matthew and Janet praise Deep Throat -- a bit of which is shown -- as an accomplished work of art.) Even more glaring in a play billed as a comedy is the absence of wit; for Bradshaw, it sometimes seems that a shock laugh is the only kind of laugh there is. As far as I can tell, his only interest lies in trying to provoke the audience, but, given its one-note nature, it ultimately seems pretty listless. As provocations go, it could use the theatrical equivalent of a shot of Viagra. -- David Barbour