Theatre in Review: This is Not a Drill (York Theater Company) One of the great difficulties in writing of This is Not a Drill is characterizing it. Is it Come from Away with nuclear fallout? Close but not quite. The White Lotus meets The Love Boat? You're getting warmer. Dance a Little Closer for the Trump Administration. (If you get that one, you're good.) This is Not a Drill is the bomb? Yep; sounds about right. Such troubles arises from the show's frankly bizarre premise, which assembles a group of prefabricated characters with musical comedy problems at a Hawaiian resort, then subjects them to the threat of nuclear annihilation via a missile from a ticked-off Kim Jong-Un. (Spoiler alert: This is a drill.) With a running time of ninety minutes and a populous cast, it is all bookwriters Holly Doubet and Joseph McDonough can do to establish each situation before sending them scurrying for shelter, after which their conflicts are magically resolved. To be clear, This is Not a Drill is not a satire, despite a few halting jokes about the Korean dictator and the current occupant of the White House. The characters occasionally grouse about being pawns in a geopolitical game beyond their ken but, really, they're stuck in a dumb sitcom laced with moments of spurious uplift, spiked with songs -- by Doubet, Kathy Babylon, and John Vester -- that sound like they were written for pop stars of other, earlier eras. Some very nice people are mixed up in this peculiar enterprise. Felicia Finley is a would-be writer of self-help books, who, on the run from her husband and his cheatin' heart, belts lyrics about "sailing on/To a world that's waiting beyond/the changing tide," sounding like Dolly Parton or Melissa Manchester circa 1975. Matt Curiano and Doubet make an attractive pair of gay partners under strain over an adoption that went awry; Curiano, making his Off-Broadway debut, has the kind of stage presence you can't fake. But their big number, "Cincinnati Boys," set to a beat that recalls The Beach Boys' "California Girls," is one long moment of cringe, with its repeated references to "a gay old time." (Between this show and last week's This is Government, I have to ask: What is it with these swish characters? Did Stonewall never happen? Have our playwrights never seen The Boys in the Band? Does Paul Lynde still walk the earth? It's puzzling.) Others include Gary Edwards and Aurelia Williams as a married couple with problems such as his bum ticker and their estranged gay son. Theirs is arguably the weakest plot line -- and that's saying something -- but at least get a couple of gospel duets that showcase their rousing vocal abilities. (Avoid the lyrics.) Caitlin Burke and Kelvin Moon Loh are members of the resorts' staff, dealing with rebellious son Sam Poon, who resents having to serve up the tourist-trap version of Hawaiian culture to the paying patrons. In a world of his own is Lukas Poost as the loose cannon with his finger on the US nuclear button, blithely unconcerned about blowing the entire state to kingdom come while indulging in some Elvis-style pelvis action. Somebody ought to cast him as Conrad Birdie; he might get some laughs. Also onboard is the delightful veteran Marianne Tatum, double-cast as the resort's insensitive manager and Finley's worried mother. After a couple of seasons with dodgy production values, the York has apparently sprung for this one. Edward Pierce's clever set design uses a set of simple tools (panels, pedestals) to suggest various locations, plus a pivoting wall when the time comes to hide out. Alan C. Edwards's lighting is so successful on every front (striking color backgrounds, flattering looks for the cast) that somebody ought to offer him a Broadway musical. Shannon Slaton's sound design is first-rate, both in terms of clarity and effects. Brad Peterson's projections, combining postcard Hawaiian visions with presidential tweets, are well-done but are often hard to make out, being lost in the folds of the show curtain. Johanna Pan's costumes are solid although, for some reason, Finley is overly made up and unattractively bewigged. Even if it has a professional sheen missing from shows at the York just recently, This is Not a Drill is an epic piece of silliness, wedding a dead-serious premise to a creakily conceived and poorly executed book, paced by an oddly derivative score. Whatever else you might say about it, it certainly doesn't let up. After the finale, which urges us all to "make a choice" and "raise your voice," there's a hula routine that includes the audience. Just saying. --David Barbour 
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