"HELLHOUND ON MY TRAIL" at The Viaduct
BY LUCIA MAURO
Playwright Denis Johnson specializes in picking at the seedy underbelly of societal institutions – government, religion, relationships, corporations and crime itself. And, although Sam Shepardesque drifters form the more engagingly bravura aspects of his theatrical repertoire, he can eke out with equal ferocity the slithery self-preservation of white-collar types.
"Hellhound on My Trail" – which marks the first self-produced venture for the popular industrial-style rental house The Viaduct – merges all of these ideas as it travels across a menacing landscape of American fear and fanaticism. But, while the journey is mesmerizing in its diabolical obscurity, it also can plunge viewers into utter bewilderment.
By the end, we’re left with a story that simultaneously fizzles out and dangles us at the edge of a queasy emotional precipice. That may be Johnson’s intent, especially considering how the show’s deliberately ambiguous form mirrors our sense of floating in a limbo of inexplicable paranoia.
Nevertheless, some viewers just might give up and no longer care what happens to these loosely connected characters. On the other hand, they will do doubt leave in compelling befuddlement over the absurdist-inspired script and with a deep appreciation for Whitney Blakemore’s fiercely seductive staging.
"Hellhound on my Trail" is structured as three distinct two-person scenes, which cryptically reference each other. The play opens with a jittery but grounded young food-inspection administrator, Marigold, being interrogated by a repressed internal affairs investigator, Mrs. May, for improper sexual conduct involving a jar of jam. In the next segment, we meet Marigold’s nemesis, the opportunistic Kate Wendell, conspiring with the morally questionable bureaucratic inquisitor Jack Toast in a bizarre hotel for Germans in the United States.
Scene Three yanks us out of tidier environs and into Johnson’s more familiar territory of a trashed hotel. Here Marigold’s alcoholic brother (Cass) finds himself set up in a cocaine bust involving Salazar, an agent of the Church of Jehovah, which has turned to shaking down drug dealers. Cass is reminiscent of the Coen Brothers’ obliviously wise Dude in "The Big Lebowski."
The play, however, remains plotless – a fact that can send audiences seeking closure or a pay off into a rabid rage. Its conflict and energy arise from the serpentine clues dropped by these eccentric, lonely, sleazy and noble characters. Johnson unfortunately drops the ball in the final scene when his characters no longer have a stake in anything (not even futility). Interestingly, the last scenario is the most pungently written but the least satisfying.
Still, Johnson’s crackling and surreal dialogue, coupled with a seething sense of sad truth, make this play more than a self-consciously quirky theatrical exercise. It also provides actors with a chance to stretch boundaries while making their characters arrestingly believable. Blakemore and her smashing cast have a field day with these offbeat, earthy figures.
Steve Walker should serve as a model for any actor pursuing a career in the Johnson or Shepard vein. He shapes Cass, a stoned savant, into a flawed but honest moral barometer. An opening sequence of tour de force non-verbals features Walker – with a gaping bullet wound festering near his ribcage -- stumbling around a hotel room, trying to shoot himself and clumsily flushing a mysterious supply of blow down the toilet.
His hilariously bittersweet encounter with the rugged and astute J. Scott Turner as the fraudulent but sympathetic Salazar is a thrilling example of two actors who have mastered a painstakingly skilled rawness to make it seem like they didn’t even have to memorize lines. They speak from their soul.
Also outstanding are Cindy Marker’s sexy and smart Kate Wendell – who manages to keep us guessing whether she’s "a homosexual maniac" or a highly caffeinated corporate survivor. Rom Barkhordar’s sly but welcoming Jack Toast serves as a calculating and ambiguous counterpart. As the irrepressible Marigold, Julia Siple creates a charismatic heroine who is immovable beneath her seemingly crumbling exterior. Franette Liebow lends just the right touch of creepy pathos to the mysterious Mrs. May.
Robert Whitaker’s impressively detailed – if a bit cumbersome – sets and mood-shaping lights carry audiences to familiar places with an apocalyptic twist – especially the leering antelope and boar heads jutting from the restaurant’s walls and the cheesy knotty-pine paneling of Cass’ hotel room (complete with a mounted cow skull).
Johnson’s play is essentially set nowhere – except, perhaps, in a bureaucratic void. And, as Cass learns, our desperate search for answers may not lead us to a Supreme Being – just someone pretending to be our friend as they try to sell us something we don’t need.•
"Hellhound on My Trail" is extended through December 14 at The Viaduct, 3111 N. Western Ave. Tickets: $15. Call 773-296-6024 or log onto www.ViaductTheater.com.
