Theatre in Review: 17 Orchard Point (Theatre Row)

	Michele Pawk, Stephanie DiMaggio. Photo: Matthew Murphy

Say what you want about Michele Pawk: She knows how to make an entrance. At the beginning of 17 Orchard Point, she sashays through the front door of a modest Cleveland house, in a chic black-and-white suit, an enormous black hat, wraparound sunglasses, and an alarming pair of high heels, and clutching a pair of black alligator bags. Needless to say, she exudes presence; if she burst into a number from, say, Gypsy, or even Coco, you wouldn't be at all surprised. Yes, she has had some help from Tilly Grimes, her wickedly observant costume designer, but give credit where it is due: Pawk has the kind of wattage you cannot buy. When she wants to be noticed, you had better reach for your sunglasses.

Pawk's character, Lydia, has an obstreperous manner to match. Responding to a compliment about her appearance, she notes that her "breasts are fit for the Louvre." Passing a crucifix, she greets Jesus, saying, "How's it hanging?" Informed that the party her daughter is throwing lacks a few essentials, she wails, "No booze, no men; honestly, Vera, did I teach you nothing?" When Vera expresses a fondness for pigeons, noting that they are related to doves, Lydia snaps, "And Daniel Baldwin's related to Billy, Alec, and Stephen; it still doesn't make him attractive!"

For a little while, Lydia holds our attention, especially as we try to figure out what's going on between her and Vera. The backstory: After the death of her husband and son (Vera's father and brother), Lydia hightailed it to Vegas, where she has a taken lover who, she admits, is not "the working type." Vera has stayed behind in Ohio (as has her unseen married sister), managing the apartment house owned by the family. She is quiet, plain, a devout Catholic, with no boyfriend in sight. It's hard to imagine what these two have to do with each other; as it happens, the authors, Anton Dudley and Stephanie DiMaggio, have had trouble imagining it, too.

Lydia arrives ostensibly to attend a baby shower for Vera's sister, but she has been duped by her daughter. Having found a pair of telltale christening dresses, Vera has some pertinent questions about her family's past. Lydia's answers are enough to set the younger woman reeling; in addition, Lydia has made plans for the future that are guaranteed to leave Vera without a home or job.

All of this might be engaging if the people in 17 Orchard Point had anything to them, but the play's first image -- of the falsely ebullient, tackily overdressed Lydia contrasted with the drab, withdrawn Vera -- is pretty much the whole play. There's plenty going -- accusations, revelations, even a drink hurled in someone's face -- but none of it feels authentic. And neither character wears well: The drunker and more bellicose Lydia becomes -- the result of a truth-or-dare drinking game -- the more her loudness and vulgarity become wearing. Vera is so thinly conceived that she never comes to life; she's the kind of person you forget is in the room. We're left with a harridan and a wallflower, and neither of them matters enough to get us through the play's brief 75-minute running time. It certainly doesn't help that the action climaxes in a rush of unbelievable events, including an offstage sexual encounter, the murder of a pigeon, and one character's abrupt escape. (The script contains references to so many off-stage characters and events that one wonders if at some point it didn't exist in longer form.)

Under the direction of Stella Powell-Jones, Pawk gives it her all, doubling down on Lydia's unpleasant qualities, sparing herself -- and us -- nothing in her determination to expose the character's selfishness and hidden wounds. But it's too much effort for too little payoff. Stephanie DiMaggio navigates the narrow confines of Vera's character skillfully, but since she is the coauthor, with Anton Dudley, of the play, it's hard not to blame her for the awkward construction and two-dimensional people of 17 Orchard Point. Watching the two of them down bottle after bottle of Maker's Mark ("Vodka's for superficial events; bourbon's for telling the truth," says Lydia, who packs the contents of a liquor store in her rollaboard.), get sloppy drunk, and hurl unspoken truths is not amusing, searing, or even engaging; it's merely distasteful.

Everything else about 17 Orchard Point is professional, including John McDermott's comfortable-looking, meticulously detailed Midwestern living room-kitchen set; Daisy Long's lighting, which moves from afternoon sunlight to chilly moonlight to a searing morning sunrise; and Elisheba Ittoop's sound design, which includes pop tunes on the radio and an approaching car.

This sort of mother-daughter battle is the basis of so many plays that, unless you have something really fresh to add, you're not going to get very far. Dudley and DiMaggio's script feels more like an acting exercise than a fully realized drama, and they don't make a case for why these characters are worth your time. This is one family reunion you can skip without guilt.--David Barbour