Theatre in Review: The Lights Are On (New Light Theater Project/Embeleco Unlimited at Theatre Row)

	Jenny Bacon, Danielle Ferland. Photo: Hunter Canning

Playwright Owen Panettieri wants to have his pie and eat it, too. In the case of The Lights Are On, the pie is poisoned. Or maybe not; who can say? Reality is a slippery thing in this psychological thriller, which pursues so many narrative possibilities that it ends up in a bewildering pileup of narrative twists. Thanks be to a trio of actors for keeping it watchable; I wonder if they've figured out the plot yet.

Liz, a middle-aged widow bustling around her modest suburban kitchen, is interrupted by a frantic neighbor, Trish, who, returning home, sees her second-floor lights turned on and a male figure in the window. Trish wants Liz to help her investigate. Liz, not unreasonably, suggests calling the police, but Trish responds, "I don't need them in my house. They'll turn the place upside down and then I'll have to try to put it together again on my own." Fair enough, but, since a criminal may be ransacking the place, she may be pushing the discretion-is-the-better-part-of-valor thing a little too far.

As it happens, the women, living in proximity and once close friends, haven't spoken to each other in years, so Liz pulls out a bottle and they settle in for a nice wine-soaked chat. A little later, Nathan, Liz's son, shows up, noting that Trish left her car door open and her keys in the ignition. Given that her house and car are in obvious peril, the suddenly oblivious Trish must really need that drink.

Meanwhile, the conversation is developing an edge. Liz, who struggles to get by, resents Trish's considerable wealth. Trish has stayed away since the death of Liz's husband, who was Black, in what was probably a racial incident. Trish's motivation, a form of survivor guilt mixed with schadenfreude, doesn't explain why she has shunned Liz even in the aftermath of a devastating hurricane. (Trish's personal life, by the way, is a rolling calamity, thanks to a bitter divorce and a son with whom she isn't on speaking terms.) Then Nathan quietly explains that Liz hasn't left the house in years, preferring to stuff her head with radio conspiracy theories while stocking up on canned goods and medical supplies against the catastrophe she senses is imminent. Nathan, who, caring for his mother, feels trapped and whose boyfriend has given him an ultimatum, is about to take drastic action to resolve this unsustainable situation -- a plan he denies a few minutes later.

Adding to the (pick one) intrigue/confusion: Why do the kitchen lights flicker? What's causing that awful scratching sound? Who wrote that message, addressed to Trish, on the kitchen window? And how is it that, a few seconds later, the same window is covered with a wooden stormboard? The Lights Are On is usually headed in multiple directions, a strategy that breeds confusion. Panettieri wants to entertain so many alternatives -- that Trish is an agoraphobe driving her son to distraction; that Nathan is capable of breaking and entering and homicide; that Trish is having a psychotic break; and that some kind of supernatural menace lurks outside -- none of them gains any traction.

It doesn't help that Trish discusses her ailing sister with Liz only to have the latter, several scenes later, level an out-of-left-field accusation that makes a hash of the earlier conversation. Or that Nathan changes his clothes in the kitchen, stripping down to his jockstrap in front of Trish. Or that Nathan confesses his criminal intentions without worrying that Trish might dial 911. Then there's the head-scratching climax, related to a recurring nightmare of Trish's, that seems to come from another play altogether. In the program note, Panettieri cops to having written The Lights Are Out while under the influence of David Lynch's Twin Peaks. That explains a lot.

For a while, it's fun to guess where things are headed and the play's structure, built around mirror-opposite parent-child relationships, is intriguing. (Neither Liz nor Trish is angling to be named Mother of the Year.) But after a while, The Lights Are On seems to be constructed of nothing but red herrings, making it hard to care about any particular outcome.

Sarah Norris has cast the production well and her direction guarantees a decent amount of tension. Danielle Ferland's blunt, busy-busy manner is just right for Liz; she also allows her character's underlying fear and vulnerability to shine through the bluster. Marquis Rodriguez, a striking new face, captures Nathan's cool surface, under which a fierce determination simmers. As Trish, Jenny Bacon has the toughest assignment, playing a character both affected and possibly insane, and she has her grating moments. But Trish's participation, with Nathan, in a nasty little game called "Two Lies and a Truth" constitutes the play's niftiest cat-and-mouse moment.

Brian Dudkiewicz's detailed, naturalistic kitchen set strikes exactly the right note; you'll feel certain you've been in its real-life counterpart more than once. Lighting designer Kelley Shih starts with a simple wash then raises and lowers the brightness level as needed, switching expertly into surreal effects that may or may not signal an imminent mental breakdown. Janet Bentley and Andy Evan Cohen come up with some distinctly creepy sounds that make the characters' more paranoic moments seem justified. Kara Branch's costumes draw distinct class lines between Liz and Trish; she gets bonus points for those matching T-shirts, worn by Liz and Nathan, saying, "I survived the nuclear winter."

The Lights Are On is reminiscent of Grey House, the cabin-in-the-woods thriller that ran briefly on Broadway earlier in the season. Both deploy standard genre tropes, planting various clues while leaving the door open to a supernatural explanation. And both arrive at say-what? finales that are deeply unsatisfying. Worse, the characters keep making bizarre, counterintuitive choices; dramatically speaking, too many kooks spoil the broth. --David Barbour