Theatre in Review: Through the Yellow Hour (Rattlestick Playwrights Theatre)

	Hani Furstenberg Photo: Sandra Coudert

You begin to experience the distinctive mix of suspenseful drama and utter nonsense that is Through the Yellow Hour even before you enter the theatre. The audience is refused entry until just before the play begins, a strategy that results in a line that stretches down the stairway (Rattlestick is on the second floor) and out onto Waverly Place. A man, wearing what appears to be a hazmat suit, appears and informs you that your neck must be stamped, in ink, with a circle. Thus the introduction to Adam Rapp's play about terrorism, fascism, and the horrors of modern warfare, a Hobbesian account of civilization in free fall, is eerily like having to deal with a particularly intractable bouncer at a hip downtown club.

Inside the theatre, however, everything changes. Andromache Chalfant's fabulous ruin of a set -- an East Village apartment with bombed-out windows and a collapsing ceiling plus shattered glass and exposed bathtub and toilet -- stretches into the auditorium, pulling us into the environment and giving a palpable reality to Rapp's vision of evil run amok. The early stretches have the tension of a superior thriller. The violent opening encounter between Ellen, the apartment's occupant, and a hairy, filthy intruder, starts things off with a jolt of adrenaline. The next two scenes, in which Ellen, who has been holed up at home for weeks, warily admits Maude, a stranger bearing an infant child, crackle with tension and mystery.

As long as it maintains a teasing air of mystery, keeping you guessing who, if anyone, can be trusted, Through the Yellow Hour exerts a considerable grip. The premise: New York City -- indeed, a good chunk of the Northeast -- has become a war zone; block after block has been reduced to rubble. (In Christian Fredrickson's design, the sounds of machines and explosions are heard constantly in the background.) A terrible infection is rampant. Men are being taken into custody to be castrated. (Ellen's husband left one day several weeks earlier in search of supplies, and hasn't been heard of since.) Meanwhile, Maude appears, intent on giving up her baby in exchange for a shot at escaping the city. ("Apparently, Youngstown is still safe," she says.) The slow reveal of information, the bristling lack of trust between the two women, and the atmosphere of continual menace guarantees that, at least for its first half, Through the Yellow Hour is Rapp's most powerful work in some time.

As the play wears on, however, a vagueness sets and it isn't helpful at all. At first, it seems that New York is the victim of a coordinated Muslim attack, complete with new-style dirty bombs that spread disease. Later, there are throwaway references to "some corporate entity financing mercenaries," although that's about as clear as it gets. The appearance of Hakim, a Christian Iraqi who brings news of Ellen's husband, results in another tense confrontation, but by now, the invaders, known as "Egg Heads," are beginning to seem more the invention of a willful playwright than a plausible theatrical device. Already, nagging questions abound: Why is Maude so willing to give up her baby? What is going to happen to the child's twin sibling? How is it that Maude and Ellen were able to make contact, even through an intermediary, when Ellen never leaves her apartment? (Cell phones no longer work in this urban hell.) The play unfolds over the course of several weeks, but somehow Ellen survives -- thrives even -- on a diet of canned peaches donated by an unknown source. (You'd need plenty of canned peaches, and storage space is at a premium on that set.) There is a dead body on the set, which nobody ever thinks about moving, not even into the hallway, despite the obvious incentives for rats and disease that it represents.

By the time a group of mysterious visitors -- including an enigmatic blonde female, dressed like an extremely trendy airline attendant -- appears to claim the baby, Through the Yellow Hour has begun to seriously squander its powerful mood. It's at this point that the dialogue begins to develop a B-movie ripeness. ("My name is of no consequence to you," sneers Claire, one of the mystery guests, when Ellen asks her to identify herself.)

The play climaxes in an exchange of persons that carries the uncomfortable overtone of a slave sale, especially since one of the participants is an adolescent black boy. There is a hint of some kind of project involving Aryan genetic engineering, but, by this point, it's hard not to feel that Rapp has mashed together a variety of social evils to create an all-purpose dystopia. In the midst of all this ugliness, Rapp goes all inspirational on us, having Darius, the young black man, who is about to take part in a case of statutory rape, announce that "even in the dark of night, there is always a glimmer." (Earlier, Hakim, who, given the fact that he has been castrated, really has nothing to be hopeful about, starts reminiscing about a Christian monastery in his homeland, saying, "I think of this place and it gives me hope for the world; that despite all the senselessness, we will remain; that the souls of people will last.") It's putting it mildly to say that such poster-ready adages are comically out of place in the hellhole existence Rapp has contrived for his characters.

And yet, because Rapp is a highly skilled director (a few missteps, like that bouncer, aside),Through the Yellow Hour is kept afloat for a remarkably long time by a cast that makes clear that these characters are facing terrible life-or-death choices. Hani Furstenberg's Ellen is a fascinatingly ice-cold creature; having lost nearly everything, she knows that one bad choice may be the last she will ever make. Danielle Slavick's equally ingratiating and dishonest Maude makes an excellent foil; watching the two suss each other out provides the play's most exciting passages Alok Tewari brings a touching dignity to Hakim, and Vladimir Versailles makes a big impression as the frightened, confused Darius.

Chalfant's set is given additional dimension by Keith Parham's superb lighting, which plausibly creates the effect of sunshine creeping in through every available crevice. (Rapp gets away with staging an entire scene in near-darkness, which is very difficult to do.) Jessica Pabst's costumes are generally sensible, except when she is asked to invent clothing for Claire and her cohort, who both look like refugees from a film on Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Ellen has an awfully good-looking sweater and well-kept hair, considering she has been living in squalor for the better part of a year.

Through the Yellow Hour is never boring, but it is sometimes risible. As always, Adam Rapp pushes his premise to the limit. But did he really want to make us snicker?--David Barbour