Theatre in Review: Horsedreams (Rattlestick Playwrights Theatre)

	Michael Laurence and Matthew Schechter. Photo: Sandra Coudert

One family's devastating history of addiction is recalled in harrowing detail in Horsedreams. It begins with Desiree, one of the army of young women making New York's club scene in the early '80s; we meet her with her girlfriends, standing in front of a mirror, applying their makeup and squeezing into tight dresses and unforgiving heels, secure in the knowledge that velvet ropes will fall the minute they appear at Nell's, the Pyramid, or other such establishments. (This is our first clue that, whatever Desiree is looking for, it may not be a settled life.) Soon, she is spending her nights dancing, making love, and riding a wave of champagne and cocaine with Loman, a lanky young corporate lawyer who cannot believe his good fortune in having landed such a beauty.

He shouldn't believe it; as the author, Dael Orlandersmith, makes painfully clear, Loman loves Desiree much more than she does him, but the good times come so easy and so often that, before she knows it, they are married and living in Westchester -- a decision that sends their lives spiraling down. Sidelined in the suburbs with their infant son, Luka, the terminally bored Desiree all but forces Loman to rejoin her on the club circuit -- and, when her standard cocktail of coke and liquor fails to buoy her flagging spirits, she takes to speedballs. The addition of heroin temporarily restores a feeling of joy she thought she'd lost forever, but the consequences are horrifying. In one of the play's most telling scenes, she slips into the city to surreptitiously score some dope, purchasing it from the same guy who sells coke to her and Loman on Saturday nights -- and swearing him to secrecy in the bargain. It ends as it must, with Desiree in the center of a grisly bathroom tableau with a needle sticking out of her arm.

The rest of Horsedreams recounts how -- Loman having moved back to the city with Luka -- history repeats itself while Mira, their housekeeper, looks on, appalled. Loman, mourning Desiree and worn down by the twin responsibilities of work and child-rearing, cracks under the pressure, consuming coke in ever-greater quantities -- like Desiree, turning to speedballs when a bigger high is required. Luka, egged on by Mira, sees what is happening to his father, leading to a confrontation that shatters what is left of this tiny family.

The script is structured as an intertwined series of monologues, with Desiree, Loman, Mira, and Luka each offering his or her version of events; if, like me, the thought of an entire evening of direct address leaves you discreetly looking for the exit, I hasten to add that Horsedreams demonstrates the addictive power of well-chosen words. All four characters are blessed -- or cursed -- with pitiless powers of observation, a quality that Orlandersmith exploits to the fullest. Desiree, walking up the aisle at her wedding, sees her mother-in-law to be: "Her bloodshot dagger eyes were staring at me the whole time." (Both Desiree and Loman have alcoholic parents.) Stepping out on a Saturday night, she recalls, "The whiteness of the coke is shimmering in the darkness of the limousine." Flying high on her first speedball, she says, "There was nothing before or after this" -- words that soon prove to be horribly true. The play's title has multiple meanings -- it refers Luka's skill as a horseback rider and his dreams about his mother, but it also refers to Desiree and Loman's heroin-distorted mental states. "This was my new girl," Loman says. "I wanted to ride her forever."

The addition of Mira, a struggling black painter who, in midlife, returns to nursing school, gives the story a mordant, class-conscious spin. Mira has taken the job because she needs the money, and isn't thrilled by its stereotypical implications; also, she doesn't want to get drawn into the lives of Loman and Luka. But her father and brother were both destroyed by drugs, and she knows a disaster in the making when she sees it -- and, ultimately, she can't stay silent. We see Loman (and, earlier, Desiree) play the race card, which is the author's way of confirming the extent of their delusions: "My wife was no lowlife ghetto bitch," says Loman to Mira, as if being a well-off junkie is more respectable than being a poor one. Mira proceeds to make clear, in no uncertain terms, what she thinks of upper-middle-class white people who think their problems justify seeking escape via the needle.

A generally compelling evening, Horsedreams does have its highs and lows. The first third, devoted to Desiree and Loman, is so magnetic -- the characters seem to ride a tidal wave of words -- that there's a slight letdown after the action shifts to Loman, Luka, and Mira. There's another, more fundamental problem: Luka, as conceived by Orlandersmith, is the most articulate ten-year-old you've ever seen, perceptive beyond his years and blessed with emotional strength in ways that frequently strain belief. (Surprisingly, there's little or no indication that he is headed down his parents' and grandparents' path.) This, I suppose, is necessary to set up the final father-son faceoff that brings the play its astringent finale, but still I found myself wishing the author had found a way to make Luka a few years older.

Still, under Gordon Edelstein's ferociously paced and remarkably nuanced direction, all four performers deliver exceptionally strong work. Roxana Hope captures Desiree's glittering, and faintly frightening, edge, her need to be an object of desire, and the rage she feels when it is denied her. ("I want to hurt him," she says of Loman, who has done nothing but care for her. "I want to bring him to his knees.") Michael Laurence's Loman is boyishly charming at first, his face radiant with happy surprise -- which makes his slide into utter dissolution all the more horrible. Both of them are superb at enacting denial. ("I did coke -- but only a few times" is a typical remark.) Orlandersmith, who plays Mira, is a compelling presence, her watchfulness transformed into quietly mounting fury. The producers at Rattlestick must have been in a panic about finding a young actor capable of learning Luka's substantial role and giving it some kind of psychological reality; they lucked out with Matthew Schechter, who handles the job with remarkable assurance.

Takeshi Kata's striking set places the action on a cracked mirrored surface - one can imagine it covered with lines of coke -- backed by a shattered upstage wall depicting a cloudy, gunmetal gray sky. Angled over the stage is a vertical strip of fluorescent lights. It's a strange design -- arguably too abstract for this play-- but is compelling, nonetheless. It is lit with real sensitivity to the script's shifting moods by Marcus Doshi. Ryan Rumery's sound design includes a catchy playlist of club favorites by the likes of Blondie and Iggy Pop, as well as other effects, including crashing waves. Kaye Voyce's costumes are generally good, although I couldn't help wondering why Laurence didn't wear a belt with this lawyerly suit.

For most of its running time, Horsedreams is carried by the power of its narrative; you can see where the characters are headed, and you watch, transfixed, praying that the worst won't happen. Orlandersmith, to her credit, is too honest to end on any note of sentimentality or false hope. It's a grim finale and yet, strangely, it's not depressing. That's because the author understands that powerful writing may provide the most authentic rush of all.--David Barbour