STAGE REVIEW : ‘CARPENTERS’ TACKLES THE AMERICAN FAMILY

That venerable saying, “Show me, don’t tell me,” inevitably strikes the listener at Steve Tesich’s woefully strained “The Carpenters” at Richmond Shepard Studio Theatre.

After stating his point--that all things, including the American family, must fall apart and give way to something new--Tesich has the temerity to repeat it, highlight it, broadcast it and otherwise propagandize it within the context of his own play. It’s certainly a dramatic case of interesting bad writing, but Tesich’s own lack of self-confidence in his theme robs the work of any artfulness.

At that, it’s a theme already worn down by playwrights with far weightier boots. Father (Robert F. Oakes and Robert Schuch alternate, as do all the roles) is faced with a house on an unsteady foundation, faulty appliances, a broken pump and squirrels on the roof.

All these are direct metaphors for the family, led by Mark (Michael Osment/Thomas Heppler) newly arrived from college and disgusted with Dad’s ineffectuality. Brother Waldo (Jason Bateman, with Eric Matthew and J. Howard Higley alternating Fridays) is retarded, though we’re not sure how: He is often the brightest one of the bunch, with an unerring instinct for one-liners. Sissy (Esther Alise/Ann Rubanoff) has flunked out of school and, it seems, life. Mother (Ruth McArthur/Julia Lemaire) takes orders and feels nothing.

Mark wants to take command, but since Tesich’s characters are so vacuous, we wonder what Mark is to take command of.

Vacuous and, eventually, humorless. The play gets off to a perky start, appearing to take us into an upside-down universe where “The Donna Reed Show” meets Dario Fo. Bateman’s Waldo conjures up Lear’s Fool, victimized but wily, pathetic but witty, vulnerable yet almost imperialistically distant. It’s a character we can rest our eyes on and use as a telescope to view the rest of the landscape. But it’s eventually a character with no depth of field. The family, except Waldo, are empty shells with various methods of self-preservation. To prop this up as drama, you had better have some language to hold it.

After the early scenes, where there’s some black comedy that enlivens the dialogue, the play grinds down as Mark slowly takes control. He is a spewer of metaphors.

Susan Lane’s set barely suggests a collapsing house. Better, more dramatic and evocative are Buddy Tobie’s lights. In a show with a bagful of sound effects, designed by director Kent Bateman and Stanton Hunter, few of them convince.

Performances at 6476 Santa Monica Blvd., Thursdays through Saturdays, 8 p.m. Runs indefinitely (469-1533).