Theatre in Review: Let's Love! (Atlantic Theater Company)/Dreadful Episodes (59E59) We've had a run on short-form theatre this week, with two attractions that combine playlets and/or vignettes with musical interludes. I hate to use the "R" word; let's call them revue-adjacent. In each case, such flexible formats provide plenty of latitude for the expression of distinct sensibilities, although with varying (to put it mildly) results. "I could wallop you with my breasts. You'd see stars," says the character known as The Broad in Let's Love! This happens to be one of the milder statements made in an evening that often confuses coarseness with hilarity. As it happens, this piece, "The Broad at the Bar," is the most entertaining of Ethan Coen's triptych of scenes from the war between men and women. It consists of little more than dueling monologues by two drinkers, one male and one female: The Broad, played by an unrecognizable Mary McCann (sporting an aggressive wig), has a lyrical way with dirty talk. Recalling her affair with a ballplayer of note, she says, "I had that man's penis sittin' up doin' tricks. I had that thing reciting the Latin mass -- never mind Vatican II. I had that thing yodeling in the canyon." That's colorful writing, to be sure, and the Vatican II reference is a masterstroke. Indeed, The Broad has the Vatican on the brain; opining on Roman Catholic sexual ethics, she announces, "The pope should grab a chair, swing a leg over, light himself a Kent cigarette, and say, 'There's sex -- and then there's me. And folks, let's think why.' Make it human. Fireside chat. Glass a scotch, maybe. Or, creme de menthe-he is the pontiff." Dion Graham, as the man on the next stool, doesn't get such colorful writing, but "The Broad at the Bar" is a tasty, if slight, offering that calls to mind the early David Mamet. But the bulk of Let's Love! Is taken up with "Dark Eyes," which focuses on a romantic quadrangle consisting of the vengeful Susan; her weaselly ex, Dan; Faye, Dan's younger, ulterior, and domineering, girlfriend; and Tough, the hitman Susan hires to rough up Dan. (Susan, negotiating Tough's fee, drives the price down, sweetening the deal with a menu of sexual favors. Or, as she puts it, "I'll fuck you like you have never been fucked. You'll have some beautiful memories." When he demurs, she wonders, "What're you, a faggot?" And she wonders why she has man problems.) The sketch is little more than a more explicit example of the sex comedy style that prevailed into the 1970s, when the old genres were dying out and playwrights turned to shock tactics: The script is packed with vulgar punchlines, most of them about vaginal and anal penetration, plus mechanical twists designed to get easy laughs. Cohen lands them on occasion, but the entire enterprise is seedy and dispiriting. The best thing about "Dark Eyes" is that it shows off Aubrey Plaza's ruthless way with a zinger, so let's hope she turns up soon in something more commensurate with her skills. Noah Robbins appears at the end of "Dark Eyes" as Susan's potential suitor from Jdate, only to learn that she isn't Jewish, preferring to troll the site for one-night stands. In her twisted logic, Jewish men looking for a wife won't be interested in a relationship with her, but, since she has them in her apartment anyway, why not a quick bedroom romp? It's a less-than-perfect ending to a lazy, shapeless piece of writing. Robbins also appears in the title piece, about a pair of innocents on a date. (How innocent? The young woman still collects stuffed animals and is proud of it.) Such sweetness and light cannot last, however, once Robbins, suffering from a massive case of food poisoning, delivers the longest act of onstage vomiting that I can recall. It mostly unfolds out of sight, but the sound effects are appallingly vivid. Rest assured that director Neil Pepe isn't afraid to milk this gag for all it is worth, and then some. At least this sketch ends happily, once Robbins has dried off. The interstitial songs, delivered by Nellie McKay, provide some comfort, as do turns by Chris Bauer (Tough), CJ Wilson (Dan), and Mary Wiseman (Faye). Riccardo Hernandez's set, with its multiple turntables, keeps things moving, and Peggy Schnitzer's costumes, Reza Behjat's lighting, and David Van Tieghem's sound design are all solidly professional contributions. Still, what is the point of such ugly, dated nonsense? The Atlantic has been loyal to Coen for many years, but really, shouldn't this fine company dedicate itself to material on a higher plane than, say, There's a Girl in My Soup? In contrast to the crudities of Let's Love, everyone involved in Dreadful Episodes operates, delightfully, by inference. It's a product of Washington, DC's Happenstance Theatre Company, whose members are devoted to evoking various aesthetic sensibilities; this is a tribute to the illustrator and humorist Edward Gorey, whose slim adult storybooks call up a universe of misfortune and hinted-at depravities. Over the years, direct adaptations like Gorey Stories, Amphigorey, and The Gorey Details have come and gone, attracting little notice. The Happenstance crowd takes a different approach, using original, school-of-Gorey material to amusingly macabre effect. The tone is set by Mark Jaster, a bald, diminutive, imp from the underworld, with eyes like a pair of moons. Impeccably mannered, he announces, with regret, that, after last night's unfortunate events, "Sindbad, the Self-Impaler," will not be appearing at this performance. Nevertheless, we are assured, our seats have been "thoroughly cleaned." A pianist (Stephanie Baird) enters and eyes us with the cool precision of an internist looking for signs of morbidity. A Victorian maid (Gwen Grastorf) crosses the stage in stately fashion, staring with a shy smile gradually infused with a creeping dread. If anyone were to open a School of Insinuating Looks, this company could easily constitute the faculty. The episodes that follow are not so much dreadful as delightful, droll, and laced with a deadly wit. A fur-clad gentleman (Jaster again) keeps urging his nieces to play dangerous games, clearly hoping to bump them off; he meets his own fate via a croquet ball. A widow, clad in black and veiled, enters with the urn filled with ashes, only to be joined by a trio of competitors; the scene ends with an unsettling burst of laughter. A butcher (Jay Owen in a bloodstained apron delivers "What Keeps Mankind Alive," from The Threepenny Opera. A vignette titled "This Spilsby Suitor" ends with a proper young lady pushing her sister off a cliff. In "Colette's Calamitous Conclusions," a girl (Sabrina Mandell) performs her party piece, which involves imitations of Ophelia drowning and Marie Antoinette being beheaded. A match is lit for Joan of Arc, but we are spared the ghastly finale only when she is called away. Each of these bits is precisely stylized, relaying just enough narrative and visual information to let us imagine the worst. The same is true of Sarah Olmsted Thomas' eerie rendition of Tom Waits' "A Little Drop of Poison;" "The Curious Cousins," in which a couple (Mandell and Owen) encounter various odd phenomena, including a corpse with a knife sticking out of it, without comprehending their implications, and "The Late Patron," a mini-farce staged among crowded audience members at the opera. Everyone involved is accomplished at delivering this type of minimalist, pinpoint merriment, but Jaster is extraordinary, especially in "Mannequins," in which he demonstrates his skill at striking poses while warring with his assistant (Grastorf). Indeed, the actor knows the value of silence and a raised eyebrow; even when tossed a curveball like "Mannequin Discarded in a Fetid Marsh," he performs heroically. The text, devised by the company, is directed with exacting restraint by Jaster and Mandell. There is no set design as such, but Kris Thompson's lighting frames with action expertly while striking appropriately sepulchral tones. Mandell's costume design, taking in styles from the first two or three decades of the last century, is a wonder; half the fun involves seeing what the actors will wear next. I'm not convinced that a company dance, during which a skull is happily passed around, makes for the ideal conclusion, but, overall, Dreadful Episodes is a brief, beautifully shaped, entertainment, which succeeds by letting the audience imagine the unspeakable, --David Barbour 
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