Theatre in Review: No Place to Go (Joe's Pub)

You think you have job troubles? At the beginning of No Place to Go, Ethan Lipton announces that the company that has employed him for the better part of ten years is relocating -- to Mars. It's purely an economic decision, he assures us -- "The real estate is like a penny a hectare"-- and it isn't about reducing head count. (Yeah, right.) And, on the upside, the company has promised to pay his moving expenses, should he wish to go along. Actually, that's about it for the upside. But what can you do here on Earth, where "we are all now, on this planet, accountable to the shareholders?"

Whatever you want to call it -- a one-man musical or a high-concept song cycle -- No Place to Go is an extremely apt comedy for our times, a bracing shot of pessimism for everyone fed up with a society dedicated to the proposition that corporations are people. A self-described "emerging playwright," Lipton says he has toiled for years as an "information refiner" for a company that puts out "a product called a publication." He describes his position as "permanent part-time," meaning "I'm there for most of the work and few of the benefits." But he likes his job and, as plans progress to move the company elsewhere in the galaxy, he must struggle with the question of what to do next.

From that rather worrying opening, with its alarming hint of the twee, No Place to Go quickly becomes a mordant exploration of life in the new underclass, consisting of those young people who choose creative careers, foregoing job security, decent salaries, and "health insurance that costs less than a new car and allows you to see a doctor." Lipton's narrative is full of sneakily devastating comments. Alluding to President Obama's Race to the Top program, he pronounces it a great idea "because, really, why would we want to waste our money teaching the uncompetitive kids?" He admits dropping out of a competition for a writing grant in favor of another writer, a poet, because, "the career prospects for playwrights aren't so hot, but compared to poets, we're practically accountants." And, as the day of unemployment draws near, trying to make lemonade out of lemons, he says, "I keep telling myself that anxiety is just excitement in disguise."

When this tale of woe becomes too burdensome, Lipton turns to song. "When we move in with my aging middle-class parents," begins one typical effort, detailing the suffocating possibilities of going home again. In another, he announces, "I'm gonna incorporate" in a desperate attempt to scare up some tax exemptions. (His ear for the clichés of corporate-speak is faultless.) In truth, few of these are fully realized songs; they're more like extended verbal riffs set against lush jazz backgrounds created by a fine trio of backup musicians, the words delivered by Lipton in a furry rasp borrowed from Tom Waites. But even the weakest of them has something to say, and, among others, I treasured a rockabilly tribute to Harry Hopkins and the New Deal, as well as a Pete Seeger-ish commentary on TARP and "zombie banks" called "Thank You (Financial Crisis Blues)."

And to his credit, nobody is spared, not even Lipton himself. He spoofs his own inertia in "Shitstorm Coming," in which, faced with imminent unemployment, he "makes another macho move in Scrabble" and checks for updates on The Huffington Post. Explaining his woolgathering ways, he adds, "Sometimes you start talking first, and then you let meaning come in."

Throughout, Lipton makes for a fine companion, rousing the audience with shock-of-recognition laughs about the sheer difficulty of getting by in a world where the impulse to creativity is rarely rewarded and people are just another asset to be managed in a universal corporate game. Providing sterling musical support are Vito Dieterle (saxophone), Eben Levy (guitar), and Ian M. Riggs (bass). No Place to Go is the latest example of the Public Theater's uncanny ability to address the cold facts of our hard times. It won't help you with your 401(k), but it will make you feel that we're all in this mess together.--David Barbour