Theatre in Review: Lonely, I'm Not (Second Stage Theatre)

Paul Weitz wastes no time in letting us know that Porter, the hero of his new comedy, Lonely, I'm Not, is a first-class basket case. He wakes up in his dreary-looking apartment and heads to the local coffee shop; he gets into a fight with the barista, who tries to explain, as if to a small child, that he can no longer sell Porter a latte before business hours. The argument turns physical, and, a few seconds later, we see Porter in a job interview, his not terribly fresh-looking shirt stained with coffee. The interviewer, digesting the information that Porter is (hopefully) returning to the job market four years after a nervous breakdown and seeking some assurance, says, "But you're doing better now." "Yes. I am ready to get out there and kick some ass," he says. "Well good," she replies, "And...what makes you want to teach second grade?"

Porter, who worked in finance, digs the hole he is in even deeper, saying that he likes the idea of teaching seven-year-olds because "they haven't been completely destroyed yet." He then seals his fate by adding, "I have some thoughts about installing a program dealing with basic concepts of computer modeling and corporate ethics, even at a very early age, in tandem with Singaporean mathematics, which I think would make the school even more unique."

Known at Harvard as "The Ninja," Porter was on the fast track to billionaire status until the day it all started to unravel, when, unable to face another minute on the job, he wet himself while giving a presentation to a client. Since then, he has pretty much been on his own. His mother -- a woman described as "rooting for the apocalypse" -- is dead, and his father turns up only when in need of an investment partner for one dubious scheme or another. Speaking of money, Porter is running out of it, which is why he eventually takes a part-time job selling accidental death and dismemberment insurance.

Having fully established Porter's bona fides as the biggest loser on the planet, Weitz can't resist throwing him together with an alarmingly competent romantic interest. Heather is an entertainment industry analyst, the kind of woman who not only goes to work on Sunday, she makes her assistant show up, too. When we first meet her, she is training a new candidate, giving out microscopically detailed instructions on the making of her coffee. (There's one bump in the cup denoting how much coffee to pour; a second bump is for the correct proportion of vanilla soy milk.) Like Porter, however, she lives in a state of isolation, partly because she has been blind since the age of two, thanks to a bout of meningitis. When asked, rather insensitively by a stranger, if she remembers any sights, she rattles off an answer without thinking twice: "I have a memory of my father's hands. Reaching out to me, I think. And the color blue. He died. When I was seven."

In the course of Lonely, I'm Not, Heather and Porter fall in love and try mightily to find some way of fitting together their polar-opposite lives. Some of the best moments in Trip Cullman's production detail Porter's awkwardness around this astoundingly assured young woman. He fumbles even the smallest tasks, trying to put a cup in her hands or attempting to kiss her without turning it into a head-butting incident. At a concert so loud that their dialogue is rendered in surtitles, Porter asks, "Is this hurting your ears?" "You mean," says Heather, "because my sense of hearing is overdeveloped?" "Uh, no," he responds, nonplussed. "Just fucking with you," she adds, cheerily.

In any case, this arrangement brings Porter too close to happiness, and he manages to do everything in his power to screw it up. His idea of murmuring sweet nothings is to muse, "Do you ever feel like that? That nothing exists. I mean nothing." A date to meet Heather's mother is derailed by an unexpected trip to prison, where his father is in need of bail money. Falling back on the language of his former career, he tells the woman he allegedly loves, "You analyze companies. Right? Well this company? The Porter company? If I was analyzing this company, I would say, 'Don't acquire this company. This company will take all your assets and lead you into bankruptcy.'"

Lonely, I'm Not is another of Weitz's minimalist comedies, consisting of tiny scenes lasting a page or two, which, when assembled, are meant to provide a portrait of modern anomie; in Mark Wendland's production design, each scene is announced by a single word -- "Dawn," "Caffeine," and "Exercise," among them, spelled out in rope light. If you're going to be moved by this two-bite approach to dramatic narrative, two things must occur. First, you have to believe that Porter and Heather are, on some level, soul mates, that their dramatically different ways of facing the world are opposite sides of the same coin. Second, you have to feel that Weitz's terse, almost haiku-like dialogue reverberates with unspoken meaning. If, like me, the idea of a Porter-Heather alliance is something of a head-scratcher, and if you find the dialogue to be flat rather than understated, you'll have to take your pleasures where you find them at these nights at Second Stage.

Most of those pleasures have to do with the cast that Cullman has assembled. Topher Grace, best known for the Fox sitcom That '70s Show, proves to be a natural for the stage, and his performance goes a long way toward convincing us that Porter is deeply scarred and not merely self-absorbed. Olivia Thirlby, fondly remembered from the film Juno, gives Heather, who might otherwise seem the queen of control freaks, some much-needed charm. If they never really seem meant for each other, they make for pleasant company, and they are supported by a fine cast of familiar faces. The always-welcome Lisa Emery finds robust comedy in the roles of that unimpressed job interviewer and a Latvian maid who wants merely to clean Porter's apartment without having to befriend him. (If Porter is as broke as he keeps claiming, why he has a maid is something of a mystery.) Mark Blum is a supreme study in sleaze as Porter's con-artist dad. Maureen Sebastian finds deadpan humor in the roles of Heather's much-too-needy roommate and her cowed assistant. Christopher Jackson is droll as that embattled barista and as Little Dog, the hard-charging master of the universe who brings Porter and Heather together.

Wendland's set design places a handful of scenic pieces -- a couch, a desk, a treadmill -- against a translucent white cyc, through which the aforementioned signs, which are made of rope light, appear. It's a striking approach, but it threatens to overwhelm the action on stage; it has a monumental quality that dwarfs the characters. Additional images -- of more words, partygoers, and ultra-soft-focus images of passing traffic -- are provided by the projection designer Aaron Rhyne. Matt Frey's lighting, Emily Rebholz's costumes, and Bart Fasbender's sound design are all solidly done.

Lonely, I'm Not has its share of amusing and telling moments, but Weitz, still relatively new to the playwriting game, is still working out the right balance of laughter, sadness, and hinted-at deeper emotions. Depression can be devilishly difficult to dramatize, especially here, when the characters' gestures are so tentative. By the end of Lonely, I'm Not, it's anyone's guess whether Porter and Heather will end up together. Meanwhile, she is making big career strides and he is at home with the maid, Windexing a glass tabletop. Well, you have to start somewhere.--David Barbour