Theatre in Review: The Realistic Joneses (Lyceum Theatre)

	Toni Collette. Photo: Joan Marcus

The characters in The Realistic Joneses apparently live in a small town on the edge of a woods, but, ontologically speaking, they dwell in the middle of nowhere, a bleak, mysterious place where the future looks grim and meaning is largely absent. How do they respond to their predicament? They make small talk.

Aware that whatever exists outside their range of vision is an unknowable void, Will Eno's people skate over the surface, talking, talking, talking, making everyday observations that take unexpected left turns into odd, unexplored areas of meaning. Each remark is a delaying tactic, a way of focusing on the ever-banal present and postponing yet again the final sentence, from an indifferent universe, that awaits us all.

Your response to The Realistic Joneses will probably depend on how you feel about these sneaky, sideways observations. When Michael C. Hall's John Jones -- both of the play's couples share the same last name -- is asked to name his profession, he replies, "Astronaut." A minute later, he adds, "I use the term loosely." (As it happens, he repairs heaters and air conditioners.) "You know what they say about still waters," says Tracy Letts' Bob, describing his taciturn nature. "Mosquitoes? Malaria?" asks John. "I feel like I should go to medical school or get my hair cut," says Marisa Tomei's Pony, John's restless, sometimes brainless, wife, apropos of nothing. "I'm sorry, I just kind of blurted that out," says Toni Collette's Jennifer, who is married to Bob, after making a remarkably personal confession to her new neighbors. "That's all right," says John, "That's what separates us from the animals. You never hear animals blurting things out. Unless they're being run over by a car or something."

At the beginning of the play, Jennifer and Bob are sitting in their backyard, discussing why they don't talk to each other. Bob quite reasonably points out that they are talking right now. "No, we're -- I don't know -- sort of throwing words at each other," replies Jennifer, offering what could be a mission statement for The Realistic Joneses. There is an alarming crashing noise off in the darkness followed by the appearance of John and Pony, who have just moved in next door. Their initial conversation is hardly promising -- see the previous graph -- but, for whatever reason -- proximity, need, a playwright's whim -- they are soon spending much of their time with each other. The secret that Jennifer blurts out has to do with a rare neurodegenerative disease, linked to excess amounts of copper in one's system, that is ailing Bob; the prognosis is not good. We soon learn that John is suffering from the same disease. In their response to this situation, each couple is a mirror image of the other. Bob wants to know nothing about the details of his treatment and whether or not it is going well; Jennifer spends more time with the doctor than he does. In contrast, Pony, who shows a near-pathological fear of infection, has no idea her husband is ailing, nor does she suspect that John has chosen their new home for its proximity to a doctor who specializes in his illness (and who is treating Bob).

And that, basically, is it: four people, of no special distinction, unmoored in midlife as hints of mortality draw in around them. There is a mild flirtation between John and Jennifer, and a possible, although largely anodyne, fling between Bob and Pony. Nothing else happens: There is no plot development, no major revelations, just a kind of coming together as the darkness draws near.

Some of Eno's dialogue amuses, and he is a bit of an expert in conveying the basic fragility that is the essence of life and which we tend to ignore on a daily basis. But I remain baffled by those who divine in the author's purposefully banal words any intimations of cosmic truths; to me, there is little to see beyond their cool, obsidian surface. Comparisons have been made between him and Albee and Beckett, which I guess is possible if you strip the latter writers of their fury and terror, leaving little more than wry observations and a faint sense of unease.

Sam Gold's production probably does not make the best case for The Realistic Joneses; Eno's works are scaled to much smaller rooms -- in New York, he is typically presented at Signature Theatre Company -- and even in a mid-size house like the Lyceum, the play seems a little bit lost. Still, the high-powered cast is a pleasure to spend time with, even under these uncertain circumstances. Collette makes Jennifer the show's voice of reason, but she is also entirely persuasive when she finds herself dallying with John in the grocery store for too long, for reasons she can't quite explain to herself. Hall's John is dorkily insolent but also oddly touching, especially when explaining why he has taken such elaborate measures to deceive his wife. Letts' Bob has a childish impatience that signals his frustration and fear over his declining health. Tomei's Pony is the biggest screwball of the quartet, her sense of well-being shattered by the slightest disruption.

David Zinn's set design, which combines Jennifer and Bob's backyard with John and Pony's kitchen, isn't his happiest invention -- it looks both cluttered and lacking in detail -- but the trees at left and right and the area behind the upstage wall are often lit in interesting ways by Mark Barton. Kaye Voyce's costumes are terribly ordinary and therefore terribly right. The sound design by Leon Rothenberg includes a variety of persuasive effects, including crickets, an owl, flapping bird wings, and fireworks.

The Realistic Joneses has been billed as Eno's most accessible play, but I wonder if that's the right way of putting it, for even with its naturalistic surface, its secrets remain stubbornly out of sight. I found myself deeply in sympathy with John when he says, "This was fun -- I mean, not fun, but some other word." That's the play in a nutshell; you can supply your own word. -- David Barbour