Theatre in Review: The Disappear (Audible Theater at Minetta Lane Theatre)

	Anna Mirodin, Madeline Brewer, Hamish Linklater. Photo: Jeremy Daniel

Erica Schmidt, writer and director of The Disappear, includes a Cassandra-like warning in the script's explanatory notes; too bad that nobody has heeded it. It's about her protagonist, Benjamin Braxton, a fiftyish film director who might be experiencing a midlife crisis, although all indications are that he has long been an egotistical monster and black hole of need.

As the play begins, Ben has invited Julie, a rising young star, to his upstate country house to audition for his latest film; naming her his muse, he is more or less ready to commit adultery, never mind that his wife, Mira, is in the other room. Michael Bloom, his boozy British producer, disapproves, asking, "How long will the industry support you finding talent at the end of your cock?" Good question; then again, Michael remembers the time Ben abandoned his intended, a well-known actress, at the altar of their destination wedding. (Michael considers that one a draw, since he got "a shag" with the young lady, whom he then cast in an Oscar-winning role; such is the calculus of show business.)

Ben's marriage to Mira is on the rocks, her main crime being that she is a noted, best-selling novelist, with seventeen books to her credit; she also earns more than Ben. (With a resume like that, she must be a combination of Joyce Carol Oates, Anne Tyler, and Colleen Hoover, but never mind; if you expect realism, you'll never have a good time at The Disappear.) To be sure, Ben is nothing if not honest. "I love filmmaking more than I love anything in the whole world, including my own child," he tells Julie. A simple discussion about the number of dinner guests causes him to snarl, "God Mira. Was your heart consumed by your efficiency?" He also tells her, "I look at you, and I see my death -- like, this is it? This is it until I die? I want to look at my thrilling future, not pick out my headstone." Later, having been caught in flagrante delicto with Julie, he insists it is Mira's lucky break, telling her, "You don't have to take responsibility for your culpability. Your failure. You failed as my wife."

Here's the thing: As Schmidt's script notes, Ben "MUST BE CHARMING."

Well, good luck with that. Hamish Linklater, an actor with plenty of high comedy technique at his command, does everything possible to give Ben a comically stylized profile. He bounces around the stage like one of those toys that pop up when you push it over. He throws himself on the floor with alarming regularity. He bursts into tears on cue, drying up a second later. He invests his character with a thrumming nervous energy as Ben moves around the stage, seeking trouble with shark-like efficiency.

Still, the nagging question hanging over The Disappear is this: What is Mira, presented as a sensible, practical woman possessed of considerable talent (played with enormous skill by Miriam Silverman), doing with this jerk? The script hints vaguely at a youthful love that has faded with time, and references are made to Ben's filmmaking skills. Why she doesn't strangle him with her bare hands is beyond me.

Schmidt's not terribly convincing plot entangles everyone in the making of Ben's next film. Despite her utter lack of experience, Mira is hired to write the screenplay at the insistence of Raf Night, the leading man, a major star. (Raf reveres Mira's books and wouldn't mind a closer collaboration, if you know what I mean; indeed, he tries to cuckold Ben in front of him.) The action moves along this double-adultery track without anything surprising happening; even to the least attentive audience member, the breakup of Ben and Mira's marriage will seem long overdue. Schmidt tries to satirize these showbiz denizens while insisting on their worth, a trick she can't quite pull off. This is particularly true in the case of Julie, who is, at various times, well-read, idiotically naive, on the make, and a pillar of integrity. Twice, she is made to exit into the outdoors while barely dressed or in her slip. Funnily enough, nobody seems to notice.

The Disappear often comes off as a throwback to Broadway in the 1930s, when writers like S. N. Behrman and Robert Sherwood placed their drawing room skirmishes against a background of world events. Here, the characters' convoluted emotional problems contrast with references to increasingly catastrophic climate change. This message is largely conveyed via Dolly, Ben and Mira's teen daughter, who masterminds several green projects, and who, for no good reason, summons all the characters for the final scene. But the piece is too flimsy and beset with plausibility problems to make an effective comment on such grave matters. Among other things, it seems to belong to the pre-2020 world, when feature filmmaking was still a high-risk/high-reward proposition. These days, even a pretentious auteur like Ben would be angling to get a Netflix series, and grateful for the gig.

Schmidt has at least filled the stage with pros who can make the best of a shaky situation. Linklater and Silverman do their best to explore the dark corners of Ben and Mira's baffling marriage. (A scene in which they attempt lovemaking on a chaise longue in the living room goes a long way to explaining their strange dynamic.) Madeline Brewer makes a surprising amount of sense out of Julie's ever-shifting personality; she also shows a knack for physical comedy when, in a moment of lust, she struggles to get out of a motion-capture body suit, something easier said than done. Kelvin Harrison, Jr. has a certain loopy charm as Raf, especially when explaining how playing a combat veteran gave him PTSD. If Anna Mirodin leans heavily on Dolly's more grating qualities, it may be because her character is written on a single note of grievance. Helping himself to scene after scene is Dylan Baker as Michael, whether lamenting, "The youth today...they care about their own safety in the workplace, feelings, and so on, blah blah;" drunkenly taking possession of the chaise to make a speech; or firmly announcing, "Benjamin. I would encourage you to go against instinct and think before you speak." That, at least, is one point on which we all can agree.

With its exposed beams and surrounding tall grasses, Brett J. Banakis' set is an attractive staging ground for emotional mayhem, but Cha See's almost colorless lighting is dismayingly flat; worse, the front-lighting units are often reflected in the glass doors located upstage center, resulting in annoying glare. Jennifer Moeller and Miriam Kelleher's costumes are at their most amusing with Julie, who disdains fast fashion, preferring kooky vintage ensembles with a Jane Austen touch. ("Wait, wait," cracks Raf. "At least tell me she's let you take off her bonnet?") Palmer Hefferan's sound design includes music on the radio, a crashing thunderstorm, and (heard on Dolly's smartphone), one character delivering the mother of all Oscar speeches, proving that revenge is a dish best served gold.

The Disappear is the kind of play we could use more of, a contemporary comedy that spoofs cultural follies while taking note of the serious issue shaping our future not necessarily for the better. But it takes more skill and sensibility that Schmidt shows here. The play ends with Ben making a gesture that seems entirely out of keeping with his ruthlessly self-protective nature. It would be more of an annoyance if he ever seemed to matter. --David Barbour