Wax Wings Productions is one of the few theater companies in
town that develop and produce original plays. It’s quite a risk and we’re
indebted to WW for its dedication to new work and for its high production
values. Bravo.
Cassie M. Seinuk’s EYES SHUT DOOR OPEN is finishing its run
at the Inner Sanctum Visual Arts building this weekend, through August 16th.
Seinuk has written enough material for three intriguing plays (and one horror
movie) with EYES. There’s the rub. Her first plot idea is a keeper: Victor
Shopov portrays a savvy painter who’s basking in the glow of stardom at a
reception for his latest show. He smugly tells us he could have any of the tony
women giving him the eye. Instead he’s set his sights on the gorgeous
cater/waiter who seems impervious to his charms. The two trade barbs and
sparks are ignited. It’s a nifty setup.
Melissa M. DeJesus as the aloof butterfly is counting on the
testosterone that sends males of the species tearing after the one female who
isn’t interested. Of course she’s interested and she knows just how to lure him
in. There have been a spate of stories over the years about bright young women (and
men, too, I’m sure) who have insinuated themselves into the lives of
luminaries, especially the reclusive kind. (For example, years ago a college
freshman wrote a fan letter to J.D. Salinger and parlayed it into a live in
relationship and plenty of fame for her... albeit most of it negative.) Is this
what the stunning woman is after? She certainly seems to have an agenda.
This clever butterfly is in fact a journalist who lies to the
painter to get details for a story about him. Seinuk makes her publication
Vanity Fair, which has had its share of lawsuits on the subject of
exploitation. Comeuppance is a nifty kernel for a plot but Seinuk complicates
the story with what appeared to me to be some terrible organic affliction for
the painter. He has blinding, recurring headaches with a frightening, burning
aura accompanied by distorted, crackling noise: All the earmarks of a brain
tumor or an aneurysm or a seizure disorder perhaps.
But No. This is where
the play veers off into pseudo psycho-Freudian territory. Evidently deep emotional
scars are causing the headaches and menacing voices. (In the not too distant
past, the very real “Son of Sam” killer thought voices were telling him to
commit mass murder.) In the artist’s case, it’s the “Son of Sandman” calling but
the “psycho” diagnosis doesn’t really fit because he’s able to function apart
from the headaches… and function extremely well, becoming the toast of SoHo. He
may have a ton of guilt to deal with but guilt doesn’t manifest itself in
hallucinations, horror movie style with faceless bogeymen popping out from
behind closed doors.
Of course, you can drive anywhere with a literary license. I
just can’t go with you if it doesn’t make sense. Director Christopher Randolph
has a field day scaring us with deafening sound and blood red lights. And if
headaches, voices and two characters working at cross purposes aren’t enough,
Seinuk introduces a third character, portrayed by Michael James Underhill,
adding even more creepiness as the artist’s mentally and physically damaged
younger brother. When he arrives, the fur (not to mention the visual metaphors)
really starts to fly.
The crackerjack acting is what keeps up the intensity of the
piece, even while we’re trying to make the bizarre puzzle fit. Violence makes
me squeamish. I would have preferred more psychological give and take and less “slasher”
activity but that’s just me.
