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It helps, of course, that this time Ruhl has chosen as her subject something where too much is usually not enough: the theatre. Her story, a sort of Noises Off for the ADHD generation, concerns a fortysomething actress (Jessica Hecht) returning to the stage after spending nearly two decades away and having a daughter, and discovering that her costar (Dominic Fumusa) is the same man with whom she had a hot-and-heavy fling—and an unfortunate breakup—not long before she met the man to whom she's still married. (Neither the actress nor her once-and-present paramour are named.) Yes, yes, old feelings bubble to the surface, passions (and other things) are aroused, and difficult decisions are faced by all. But Ruhl has most of her fun uncoiling the threads this illicit affair in the audition room, the rehearsal hall, and finally in full performance, with all the wacky possibilities of live theatre (at its best and worst) playing key supporting roles. You name it, it happens. The director (Patrick Kerr) is a go-along-to-get-along milquetoast who leaves far too many critical choices to his actors. When the leading man hurts his ankle, his understudy (Michael Cyril Creighton) assumes the role, and is both a terrible actor and so flamboyantly gay and inexperienced at kissing women that none of the throbbing love scene is remotely believable. (He's also the actress's scene partner during her hilariously over-the-top audition.) For that matter, the play itself, a hard-boiled 1930s society drama à la George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber's Dinner at Eight minus the artistry (and laden with terrible songs), is so absurd that the actors, who also include Daniel Jenkins, Emma Galvin, and Clea Alsip, could easily bring down the house just by reading its lines straight. But there is a reason for all this. Ruhl taps into the theatrical artificiality we all accept to comment on the artificiality in relationships we shouldn't. The contrasting ways the two stars act onstage and off, especially how their personal lives keep bleeding into the characters they're playing, is a powerful reminder of important it is to keep emotions genuine—and recognize when they can and must be confined entirely behind the footlights. That the play they're doing is so inept—the nonsensical script involves a woman who's dying of a rare disease being brought back to life by her long-ago artist lover, who then runs away with her daughter while her husband expires—only reinforces how dangerous it can be when reality is found in places you don't at all expect it.
Fumusa, in more of a straight-man role, has fewer opportunities to ignite the same kind of fireworks, but brings an engaging subtlety to a character that could easily be overplayed and one-dimensional. Creighton is a legitimate riot as the hapless understudy, Kerr a subdued joy as the director, and the other company members (also counting composer Todd Almond as the patient accompanist) expert at wringing every laugh from this material. Neil Patel's endlessly inventive anything-can-happen stage set, Susan Hilferty's costumes, and Peter Kaczorowski's lights all make major contributions at bringing this wacky world to life. Alas, this is all just Act I. As a follow-up, Ruhl demonstrates that she has not completely learned what "going overboard" means by stretching her scenario and its fragile concepts past the snapping point. Set after the New Haven run of the first act's play, it attempts to show the characters learning from their mistakes—or not—in a couple of different settings including a second play (an experimental '70s Brooklyn-Irish drug thing). But the various plot accelerants are so far-fetched, the newly introduced troubles so unexceptional, and the resolution so eye-rollingly contrived that there's no way for you to lose yourself in any of it. And when you're forced to view these people without the protective layer of artifice, they're too unpleasant and unconvincing to bear for long. Ruhl never makes it clear why she couldn't expand her Act I themes just a little to result in a single, tight narrative that would hit all her key points—she gets most of the way there before intermission anyway—so by the time it's over, Stage Kiss has burned off most of the goodwill it generates in its first half and feels as listless and tedious as, well, most of Ruhl's other plays. Until then, however, it's fine, thinking entertainment that cagily and cleverly investigates the distinctions that may or may not exist between showmance and romance, as well as the terrifying possibility that neither a ghost light nor an audience can completely kill either.
Stage Kiss
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