Waiting for the Iceman

September 24, 1997

Never an easy ride, O'Neill's often dense, thickly woven text requires superior concentration and persistence. Heavy on theme and subtext, it is not a night of MTV-style entertainment, but those who can sustain the somewhat marathon length of this (albeit pared down) work will find themselves with lingering thoughts about the mirages which pervade our own lives; Godot always seems to be around the corner.

Harry Hope's saloon is the "last stop": a denizen of the downcast, disillusioned and downright lazy. But even a drunk requires some sort of imperative to reach for the next, hopefully free, half empty glass; in O'Neill's mantra it's "the lie of the pipe dream," whether you become a lawyer, live a happily domesticated life in "Joisy" or just find peace with yourself.

In a marvelously visual opening metaphor, the residents (inmates?) of Harry's place, like so many discarded pieces of trash, lie scattered about - a jumble of forlorn humanity. Larry (played with great subtle complexity by James Zelley) is the philosopher, a refugee from "the Movement," reveling in his arrogant aloofness as observer of the flotsam about him. Representing the eternal belief in final redemption, it is the visit of Hickey (the brooding, on-the-edge Thomas Stearns), who is always good for free drinks, and the cynicism of Larry that excites the crowd. These two are the moral poles: the now sober Hickey, at peace with himself, and the eternal skeptic Larry. But are they what they seem?

It almost seems churlish to single out any one performance here, as the 18 members of this cast leave a lasting collective impression. Although lightly hampered by a couple of weak performances and some truly terrible dialects (guys, if you can't do accents, please don't even try), my lasting memory is of the profound attention to the minutia of existence amongst such a desultory crowd: going to the bathroom, mumbling self-indulgently, trying desperately to concentrate, the false bonhomie, throwing in your ten cents' worth even if no one cares - it's here, though, that I single out the striking intensity and almost chilling realism brought to Hugo by Robert L. Reich, whose homburg pops up intermittently to spew forth, only to drop into oblivion again.

Director John DiDanno and his A.D. Rick Sotis bring a rarity to Orlando: adult, thinking theater staged with panache and attention to detail that deserves a visit by all who have any interest in theater as an artistic - as opposed to pulp - endeavor. And get your wallets out ... they need your support!

Peter Lewis
A true African-American, Peter has led a peripatetic lifestle, and after graduating from UCF with a film degree, he is pondering life as another wannabe, devoting his time to working on a novel, his thesis film, a suntan and the dubious benefits of Rogaine.