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Let's talk about marital guilt. On second thought, let's not
"Speaking in Tongues' at Walnut's Studio 3
Jackie Schifalacqua
Speaking in Tongues gave me a headache and a stiff neck. It wasn't the simultaneous dialogue from the four people wrenching their gestalt-ridden anxiety over shacking up in a motel with another mate's spouse that caused it. Andrew Bovell's clear and precise cadence dialogue surely wasn't the problem either.
No, what gave me the pains were the position of the stage and my seat selection. A word to the wise here: If you go to see Speaking in Tongues, sit on the upper tier rows. Director John Peakes has placed Glen Sears's 1970s-inspired paneled romper room set at ground level—not an ideal setting for four people to talk in unison, because there are two spotlights.
I was dumb enough to sit on the second row and had to turn back and forth while trying to connect the interchange with the right partner. If there is one play that demands a risen stage, this is it. All I should have to do is look up and glance over.
The end result of all my head turning (besides the stiffness) was to make me more aware of the playwright's technique than what he had to say. This is roughly equivalent to tasting an overpowering spice in a baked chicken rather than the dish itself.
What would the French say?
Look, I believe in unity between married couples. But come on: Dabbling in some extracurricular activity after a drunken binge isn't the end of the world. It's not even necessarily the end of connubial bliss. If a fling is all you need to break your wedded vows, no one would be married.
Can you imagine such self-reproach in a French farce?
Speaking in Tongues is not Three Weddings and a Funeral or The Seven Year Itch. Nor can it compare to Paul Mazursky's Scenes From a Mall. The closest it gets to approximating anything resembling real life is one of those health films you were forced to watch in high school or the Army ("Gosh, Sarge, I thought she looked clean").
Liquor is quicker
It's a tribute to the cast— Ian Peakes, Karen Peakes (the director's son and daughter-in-law), Susan Stevens and William Zielinski— that they manage to hold my interest through the turgid plot developments of all nine characters.
So what did I get out of Speaking in Tongues, besides the aforementioned stiff neck?
Well, I learned that there's no such thing as therapeutic sex, even among consenting adults and married couples. Also, booze is a better aphrodisiac than cuddling. Also, the suburbs (at least in Australia) are inhabited by desolate people stuck in dead-end or abusive relationships.
What lessons would I suggest to the cheerless twosomes on stage? Don't drive down a deserted road without a cell phone. Never ask your canoodling partner about his or her spouse. Above all, never, ever tell your mate where you were, what you were doing and whom you were doing it with.
No, what gave me the pains were the position of the stage and my seat selection. A word to the wise here: If you go to see Speaking in Tongues, sit on the upper tier rows. Director John Peakes has placed Glen Sears's 1970s-inspired paneled romper room set at ground level—not an ideal setting for four people to talk in unison, because there are two spotlights.
I was dumb enough to sit on the second row and had to turn back and forth while trying to connect the interchange with the right partner. If there is one play that demands a risen stage, this is it. All I should have to do is look up and glance over.
The end result of all my head turning (besides the stiffness) was to make me more aware of the playwright's technique than what he had to say. This is roughly equivalent to tasting an overpowering spice in a baked chicken rather than the dish itself.
What would the French say?
Look, I believe in unity between married couples. But come on: Dabbling in some extracurricular activity after a drunken binge isn't the end of the world. It's not even necessarily the end of connubial bliss. If a fling is all you need to break your wedded vows, no one would be married.
Can you imagine such self-reproach in a French farce?
Speaking in Tongues is not Three Weddings and a Funeral or The Seven Year Itch. Nor can it compare to Paul Mazursky's Scenes From a Mall. The closest it gets to approximating anything resembling real life is one of those health films you were forced to watch in high school or the Army ("Gosh, Sarge, I thought she looked clean").
Liquor is quicker
It's a tribute to the cast— Ian Peakes, Karen Peakes (the director's son and daughter-in-law), Susan Stevens and William Zielinski— that they manage to hold my interest through the turgid plot developments of all nine characters.
So what did I get out of Speaking in Tongues, besides the aforementioned stiff neck?
Well, I learned that there's no such thing as therapeutic sex, even among consenting adults and married couples. Also, booze is a better aphrodisiac than cuddling. Also, the suburbs (at least in Australia) are inhabited by desolate people stuck in dead-end or abusive relationships.
What lessons would I suggest to the cheerless twosomes on stage? Don't drive down a deserted road without a cell phone. Never ask your canoodling partner about his or her spouse. Above all, never, ever tell your mate where you were, what you were doing and whom you were doing it with.
What, When, Where
Speaking in Tongues. By Andrew Bovell; John Peakes directed. Through April 17, 2011 at Independence Studio 3, Walnut Street Theatre, 825 Walnut St. (215) 574-3550 or www.walnutstreettheatre.org.
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