"Margarita and Max" at the Dorothy Strelsin Theater
Manuel
Igrejas’ God-awful “Margarita and Max” plays the last of its three performances
on July 28th at 8:30, but I tell you only reluctantly at the risk
that you might actually visit the Dorothy Strelsin Theater on 36th
Street between 8th and 9th, and subject yourself to a
thoroughly excruciating experience you’ll have nightmares about for months.
The play is supposedly 60 minutes long but actually runs about 40. (Don’t let this fool you into believing it’ll
be over quickly enough for you.) In the
bare-bones, black-painted Strelsin, with only two chairs to approximate
setting, Margarita (Kim McKean) waits for a bus. Out of the blue—with absolutely no buildup
and little explanation—she finds herself talking to a sentient plastic bag,
whom she nicknames Max (Craig Fox).
When, later, on the bus, she kisses the bag (don’t ask), it turns into
an annoyingly ignorant human, to whom Margarita rapidly finds herself becoming
attracted. Or perhaps it would be better
to say that the audience is forced to assume this in retrospect, given that
Margarita’s final appearance implies it, but there is no precedent given for
this burgeoning love, and when it disappears, there is no sympathy to spare for Margarita’s predicament.
This Princess and the Frog-esque story has been
appropriated over and over again over the years, each time with the same degree
of success—none. “Margarita and Max”
isn’t helped by its piddling running time, its drifting, uninteresting
characters, or the fact that it seems to be attempting to appeal to its
audience on two separate and disparate fronts.
On the one hand, “Margarita and Max” seems to fancy itself to be a
rather funny play. (So, apparently, did
the audience—Saturday night’s crowd at the Strelsin guffawed at every lame
joke, leaving this critic scratching his head.)
Mr. Fox is obviously meant to fill that slot, and attempts to do so by
practically screaming his simplistic dialogue, inspiring nothing but a splitting headache. On the other hand, Mr. Igrejas fancies
himself a philosopher, too, and a connoisseur of fine poetry, knowledge he
shows off through Ms. McKean. Margarita’s
inner monologue and almost elitist hatred for television and love for Edward
Field (really?) are extremely unappealing.
In short, Mr. Igrejas has tried to balance the lowbrow and the
ontological, and has failed spectacularly.
Ms. McKean
and Mr. Fox, the only two actors in the show—shoving even two plus an audience
into this theater leaves barely enough room to breathe—put in the bare minimum
of effort. With their contributions,
they have managed to add zero substance to an already insubstantial piece. But frankly, there’s very little they could
have done even had they tried.
This is
because “Margarita and Max” has nothing whatsoever to say. I’m forced to assume the play was written for
a reason (if only someone could explain it to me), but it never becomes clear
what that reason was. Through the course
of the show, Margarita never evolves as a character. I realize this may be a bit too much to ask
given the feeble running time, but one: I didn’t realize there was a time limit
on playwriting; and two: Part of the challenge of writing short works, be they
theatrical or cinematic, is endowing a short period of time in a character’s
life with meaning that will resonate with the character far after the audience
has left him or her. Whatever ridiculous
“magical” plot points this play may boast, one leaves the theater with the
feeling that the banal events of Margarita’s day will be forgotten after a
glass of wine and an Emily Dickinson marathon.
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