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A man begs a woman to tell him her deepest secret. A young couple discusses how dissecting a mouse's brain can make it possible for them to view the creature's memory. An office worker, fired by e-mail, rages at the indifferent HR manager who sent the note. While watching a wedding video, a big family struggles to remember the details of the day. Psychological medicine is praised, critiqued, and questioned when the word "meaning" loses its, well, meaning. And so on. The situations depicted, when they may be properly understood at all, are enormously varied and entertaining even when they border on the morose or the incomprehensible. (Though Churchill's writing outlines many of the details, director James Macdonald has added quite a bit of his own interpretation to the mix.) Two Vegas entertainers, for example, sitting dejectedly at a lunch counter, are fused only by the Elvis impersonator's line "The difficulty of getting the Israelis and the Palestinians to...", in the evening's unexpected comic triumph. The tale of a child incapable of feeling pain injects both Twilight Zone–level creepiness and introspection about the impact of heartbreak. And a series of ultra-brief meditations on depression, whether centering on drinking wine, trying on dresses, or being alone at a crowded party are often surprisingly moving in their serenity.
Alas, information overload is real, and it's in full force here. With all the scenes being incredibly short and some lasting literally no longer than the blink of an eye, no recurring characters, and barely even specific through lines, the values and virtues of the show are not always easy to determine and deep feelings or truly trenchant points are rare occurrences. As much as the scenes and their order have a point, it's so Churchill can guide you gently from being completely in the dark to knowing everything about everything (the final playlet, titled only "Facts" and concerning what looks like Jeopardy! tryouts, dispenses with any uncertainty for the only time all evening). But even in that case, it's rarely clear what's going on or why. Another director might be able to wrangle all this into at least general submission, but Macdonald hasn't done so. An overly broad brightness infects the proceedings, giving every scene a similarly sterile feel that isn't always appropriate for the spectrum of circumstances on display. Worse are the dozens of full-blackout changes of Miriam Buether's graph-paper-box set, into which various other scenic elements are sometimes wheeled—they consume enormous swaths of the running time (one-quarter or more would not seem unreasonable) and any forward momentum the instant it kindles. The 15-person company, which includes notable performers such as Susannah Flood, Jennifer Ikeda, Kellie Overbey, John Procaccino, Lucas Caleb Rooney, Maria Tucci, and James Waterston, is not to be faulted, nor is it possible to highlight every portrayal of worth here. Gem-like moments of creativity abound, but if I must pick favorites: Randy Danson proves adept at handling a variety of burdened-older-woman roles, Karen Kandel impresses with her takes on both despondence and comic incredulity, and Nate Miller brings an amiably anchored perspective to his performances of young men ranging from an amorous clown to a budding opera singer and even that internationally minded Elvis. It's all a lot to digest, and as soon as you've found something or someone to like, it's vanished and you're forced to focus on something else. This is the point of the play: We live in a society where a surplus of everything, from data on up, is making it increasingly difficult to connect on a one-by-one level. That's a meaty message, and a real problem worthy of dramatic examination from someone of Churchill's stature. That Love and Information doesn't work means, in no small part, that it's fitting in and doing its job all too well.
Love and Information
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