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None of their works to date, however, has quite matched the epic wallop packed by The Flick. It is, in a way, at once the quintessential example of both a contemporary play and the unique kind of anti-play in which Baker and Gold specialize. You might not think so at first. Set in a fading Massachusetts movie theater, it possesses no particular grandeur and oversees no cogent plot. Its characters, all workers at the theater, are given less to heavy-duty speechifying than they are to mumbling, half-finished sentences that don't acknowledge (or in many cases even hint at) the full scope of the emotions they marshal. And despite all this, it runs nearly three and a half hours, something that caused no shortage of public consternation when it first premiered at Playwrights Horizons in 2013. But with Baker and Gold, appearances are often deceiving. The play's Pulitzer Prize win last year in part occasioned the current return engagement at the Barrow Street Theatre, with all of its vital original elements intact or improved, which necessitates a reappraisal for those who were unconvinced the first time, and a revisit for those (including yours truly) who needed no encouragement to be caught within its spell. For locked within this deceptive enigma of a concept is an inordinately powerful view of America from the bottom up, a trenchant investigation of what we do and what we mean in an era in which even our two-dimensional entertainment is rapidly losing its distinctiveness. Baker focuses primarily on two careerists at the titular single-screen cinema, Sam (Matthew Maher) and Rose (Louisa Krause). He's in his mid-30s and striving to overcome the dead-end nature of his job (he takes tickets, works concessions, and cleans up after the shows) as well as his life (he's had to move back in with his parents). She has tens of thousands dollars of student loans to work off, but has scored herself the more prestigious position of projectionist, thanks to the largesse of the theater's (unseen) owner, and has thus become something of a mid-level gatekeeper standing between Sam and the brighter future he imagines awaits him in the booth.
It doesn't quite shake out that way, because unbeknownst to Avery (and, for that matter, Sam and Rose), he's stumbled into a place where the people and the work aren't what they appear to be. He can't help getting tangled in the interpersonal conflicts and relationships that keep the Flick afloat, and as he does so, each of the three of them unveil their hidden feelings about the most American of issues that drive their daily existences: love, class, race, ethics, hope, hopelessness, and quite a bit more. And it's this, of course, that allows The Flick to move from being a traditional (if somewhat experimental) character study to a great play. Neither Baker nor Gold calls attention to their artisan-level handiwork, instead choosing to pull all the big strings when they're most hidden from view. It's across the many short scenes that constitute the script that we get to know these three so totally, as we discover how they interact in situations as pedestrian as mopping the floor, reading a book about horoscopes, or contemplating an after-hour viewing party of Goodfellas. With only a few exceptions, they rarely dig deeper, but they don't need to: Baker's miraculous economy ensures that she doesn't waste a single syllable, yet by the end of it all we know as much as anyone can know about these people, and what they mean to each other. Gold's flawless pacing (enhanced from Playwrights Horizons, where it was already nearly ideal) confers on the script the additional breathing room necessary for each of their vital qualities to take root and bloom to the most sprawling extent possible. Against the brilliantly antiquated and rundown auditorium set of David Zinn, which is lit so wonderfully oppressively by Jane Cox, Gold drives home just how ordinary these people are by showing their struggles for words and to understand those around them, even while the scripted films in which they traffic present a much more orderly, romantic view of how their days should unfold. Every scene is rich, but the most piercing is probably in the second act, when Sam and Rose must confront an unspoken secret that's quietly ripping them apart. "That's not how I wanted it to seem," Sam says after a confession that's eaten him up inside, but that she's rejected. "Be. That's not how I wanted it to be." Rose reacts with a sigh of frustration. "Like—Like even right now. It's like you're performing or something." He is in a way—aren't we all?—but here it's as raw, honest, and uncompromising as theatre gets, held back from burning down the roof only because Sam and Rose don't believe they've earned such a right. They're trapped within the limitations they don't even recognize, not allowed to be the stars of their own blockbuster even as we watch their hearts—and ours—snap with the realization of so many things that are never to be. Other scenes in which they and Avery collide head-on (most notably the taut Act I closer, and an exchange when they're close to parting ways near the end) are nearly as good, as is the nearest thing to a monologue, a dark, desperate phone call Avery makes to his vacationing therapist. The complete lack of pyrotechnics on the part of the actors makes the portrayals even more fiery. Maher utterly embodies a bone-deep despondency that communicates volumes about Sam's internal battles, while not ignoring the tinges of resignation that hint at how he's able to go on. Bringing an alluring downtown exoticism to Rose, Krause makes her simultaneously compelling and off-putting, just right for the kind of person you need to hate and love. And Moten imbues Avery with plenty of awkward, low-key charm to identify him as an undeniable nerd who experiences things just as deeply as anyone else. Such is one point of The Flick, but there are many, reinforcing Baker's contention that the biggest stories are often found in the tiniest of places. This has been a prevailing theme of her work, from Body Awareness through Circle Mirror Transformation and The Aliens, but this is its most robust, riveting expression to date. Baker and Gold show us, with unerring accuracy, that nothing can indeed contain everything. But just how far that everything extends can be a breathtaking surprise, the finest feature in a superlative evening that stuns by its fervent avoidance of calling attention to itself or the legendary subjects within its confines who, against the odds, look as normal as you and I.
The Flick
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