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Certainly, this kind of relationship between truth and reality is not new territory for Auburn; it's infused many of his works, from his Pulitzer Prize–winning Proof 14 years ago to his most recent Broadway venture, The Columnist, which played in 2012. And throughout Lost Lake, which has been directed with an excess of sensitivity but not much creativity by Daniel Sullivan, its two characters, Veronica (Tracie Thoms) and Hogan (John Hawkes), seemed poised to discover and movingly work through the shattered truths they don't want to admit are already piled at their feet. That doesn't quite happen. Auburn skillfully delineates the similarities and differences between the two, when they meet in the early spring at a lake house located just an hour or so outside of New York. (The shabby but inviting set, complete with verdant skyscape backdrop, is by J. Michael Griggs.) Veronica is making plans for late summer, but doesn't have a ton of money to spend; Hogan has big plans for fixing up the place (his de facto residence) that he just needs a few months to execute. They haggle—she's good at that—and establish a sort of buyer-seller friendship that should resolve itself by the time the final payment and repairs come due. Naturally, when Veronica arrives at the agreed-upon date, two weeks before Labor Day, things are rather less than completed. It doesn't take long for what initially seems like a subtle, intricate story about class and even race becomes a far less compelling tangle of concerns. Veronica's troubles with work (she declares herself a nurse practitioner, which may or may not be entirely accurate) and Hogan's with basic subsistence (divorced and estranged from his college-age daughter, he has no money and is relegated to rooming with his brother and disagreeable sister-in-law) seem intended to color and inform the actions of each, but broaden rather than deepen. As a result, we get distracted from exploring the more interesting bond Veronica and Hogan share. This eventually pays off, to some degree, in the final scene, which is set half a year after what turns out to be a dispiriting (if not outright disastrous) lake trip. A shocking set change and autumnal rethink of Robert Perry's lighting plot add a distinct, melancholy vibe to a play that's spent most of its preceding 75 minutes teetering on the edge of comedy. When Veronica and Hogan, stripped of their façades, are forced to confront themselves and each other without their usual protections, Auburn's writing becomes more touching and more energized, as though the playwright were just waiting for the opportunity to make things real. Even so, Auburn's resolution requires, or at any rate assumes, that we accept the formation of a tenuous friendship between the two. And given their constantly antagonistic attitudes toward each other throughout, and an overarching lack of intimacy linking them in some more spiritual way, that's hard to see as part of the action. There's not enough reason to believe, as Auburn demands, that they come closer through their trials; their experiences are far too individual to encourage that. Both Thoms and Hogan work hard to fill in the gaps, and underplay the desperation that drives Veronica and Hogan. Thoms projects a compelling faux-sophisticate who doesn't want to cop to what she sees as her inherent unworthiness, and Hogan layers loss and frustration in his depiction of a man at odds with society and himself. But for all the times the characters to promise to show us what really makes them ticket, to move beyond the mere reflection of their agonies across gender, racial, and economic lines, their souls remain as remote as the cabin in and about which they argue. Auburn's attempts to puncture Veronica and Hogan's hearts aren't enough to help Lost Lake do much more than skim the surface.
Lost Lake
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