Theatre Exile presents John Logan’s Red

In the artist’s grungy, paint-splattered studio on the Bowery—rendered in fine detail by scenic designer Colin McIlvaine—Rothko (Scott Greer) and his assistant Ken (Zach Valdez) prime a canvas for painting. They begin slowly and methodically, streaking the white slate with crimson brushstrokes. Before long, they allow their passions to overtake them, practically hurling the paint (and their bodies) at the canvas. In wordless communion, they show how the power of creation overtakes them. It’s the kind of moment that stays with a viewer long after they head home.

Lacking undercurrents

Those moments, alas, are rare in Matt Pfeiffer’s by-the-numbers production, which reveals creaks in the 2010 play that haven’t always been perfectly evident. Logan’s facile drama wears the mantle of a serious work, with its musings on selling out and making way for the next generation, but it’s largely skin deep. It is the kind of play designed to make the audience feel smarter by having absorbed it, whether or not it’s actually taught them anything.

In a series of formulaic scenes, the relationship between Rothko and Ken moves from worshipful to antagonistic. The older man hazes his younger charge in predictable ways, exploding in anger at minor perceived transgressions and questioning his intelligence. The tables turn predictably when the upstart becomes the mouthpiece for the new school of artists, the proverbial barbarians at the gate. In an early moment, Rothko expounds with glee on the necessity of his Abstract Expressionist brethren “killing” their father, Picasso. He bristles predictably when Ken observes that the Warhols and Lichtensteins are ready to kill him.

Those names get dropped liberally throughout Logan’s script, along with a host of others: Friedrich Nietzsche, Jackson Pollock, Bird Parker. Cultural references give the play a patina of sophistication, but the work itself is really a cage match between the two men. Pfeiffer’s low-energy staging doesn’t set up much of a competition, though. Tension often dissipates long before a scene ends, and interminable blackouts largely zap any forward momentum. Even after it’s been suggested that Rothko and Ken have worked together for years, there is scant sense of a teeming undercurrent to their relationship.

Abstract, not inscrutable

Greer succeeds best in quieter moments, as when Rothko contemplates the meaning of art and life. He overplays blustery scenes where the mercurial artist loses his temper. But he has little to play against: Valdez wears the same hangdog expression throughout, and his vocal delivery rarely rises above a flat affect. The character of Ken should be something of a puzzle, but here, he is far too inscrutable.

No matter how abstract, inscrutable is exactly what Rothko’s work, or his philosophy, is not. We see that in the play’s one riveting scene. Elsewhere, Red fades to black.