Theatre in Review: Hound Dog (Ars Nova/Playco at Greenwich House)It's a counterintuitive thought, to be sure, but the best playwrights understand the art of banality. Consider how Annie Baker, Anne Washburn, and this year's star rookie Gracie Gardner have mastered the knack of dialogue that says nothing but implies everything. It's a highly naturalistic technique that, employed correctly, can streamline a scene, dispensing with clunky exposition while communicating a vivid sense of the unsaid. It's a trick that Melis Aker has yet to pick up. There's plenty of conversation onstage in Hound Dog -- whenever all hell isn't breaking loose -- but really, it's all talk, lacking in the power of suggestion. The title character -- yes, really -- of Hound Dog has some big decisions to make, but Aker forgets to make her (and her problems) engaging. The production's other amenities, including some attractive songs and a keen sense of the fantastic, can't make up for the general lack of interest. Hound Dog -- let's call her "HD" -- is so thoroughly based on Aker that in the script she is referred to as "I" and "me." She has returned to her hometown of Ankara, having graduated from Harvard with a degree in musicology; tucked away in her guitar case, shielded from the view of others, is her letter of admission to the Royal Academy of Music, an offer she can't bring herself to accept. Rather than be happy or make plans, she marks time, avoiding serious conversations, fretting about her boozing father, flirting with a former teacher, and making nice with a musically gifted street cleaner. HD is a study in ambivalence, unimpressed by her achievements, unwilling to form attachments, and unable to act. The sources of HD's angst are sketched in so lightly that they barely register, however. She yearns for her late mother, about whom we know little or nothing. (She is guilt-ridden about skipping her funeral for her Royal Academy audition; would that august institution really not have rescheduled her?) Her dalliance with Mr. Callahan, the teacher, is so weakly rendered that his scenes could be cut without losing a thing. She bickers endlessly with Baba, her parent, a perpetually soused student of vintage rock, who may or may not be decamping for Graceland. But, really, he is the standard kooky parent who turns up regularly in coming-of-age tales like this. Apart from her emotional block, HD is marooned, creatively, between Turkish and Western culture, a predicament played for easy, superficial comedy. At Harvard, she takes a course called "Decolonizing the Sound in the Uncanny Valley," which is the best Aker can do as far as spoofing academese. One of the judges at the Royal Academy, gushing over her musical style, says, "It's like if Joni Mitchell had a bit of an orgy with a few Turkish folk musicians, and then had a very confused baby." And Mr. Callahan thoughtlessly makes a couple of patronizing-verging-on-racist remarks because, you know, that's what white men do. What's missing from the action is any sense of life lived beyond what is seen onstage. We have little sense of HD's upbringing, her family's social status (or lack thereof), and the role, if any, of religion in her lives. (Politics, notably Turkey's police-state status, is alluded to, but barely.) Did she get along with her mother? What does Baba do for a living? Why has Mr. Callahan taken up the expatriate life? How does HD's best friend Ayse, who is queer, get by daily in a Muslim society? The script is almost entirely lacking in texture, the little details that allow the audience to fill in the blanks. The centerpiece of the play is a surreal dream sequence in which HD's various worlds collide: Her Harvard professor delivers a lecture on Elvis' Turkish upbringing while HD shouts, "Fake news!"; HD stands in for her mother in a lengthy flashback, and the action is interrupted by a raucous dance party. None of this orchestrated chaos has any effect on the protagonist's navel-gazing ways. When Ayse, fed up, announces, "You're spoiled. Yeah, you went through some shit. But that's no excuse," she seems to be acting as an audience representative. There's no way that the director, Machel Ross, can sort out of these issues and, in any case, she seems more interested in the production's musical interludes and fantasy scenes. Frank J. Oliva's two-level set, a white, plastered exterior, works reasonably well, delivering an extra kick when a shiny Mylar wall is revealed upstage. Tuçe Yasak's lighting piles on colorful effects but often neglects to illuminate the actors' faces. Qween Jean's costumes have their amusing touches, especially Baba's Elvis-inspired looks. Avi Amon, the music director and sound designer, keeps things lively but not overwhelming, aided by a solid combo known as "The Flaming Sultans." HD is such a drab thing that Ellena Eshraghi can do little to enliven her; instead, she is made to stand around, looking confused and/or put out while everyone else carries on. Laith Nakli has a good time with Baba's many eccentricities, although the character is basically a cartoon. Olivia AbiAssi scores some points as truth-telling Ayse, who wishes she could have HD's problems. The best work is contributed by Jonathan Raviv as Yusuf, a skillful musician who sadly spends his days picking up trash. Sahar Milani lends her lovely voice to the production's songs, written by Aker and The Lazours. In the end, however, Hound Dog is a pretty tame affair built around a protagonist who remains a bit of a blank. Aker isn't yet skilled enough to explain why getting into a world-class music institute might be such a source of angst. Who is HD, anyway? We don't have to like or admire her, but we must be interested in the choices she makes, good or bad. Otherwise, why are we here? --David Barbour 
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