Theater Review : Pulp Friction : ‘Hurlyburly’ Is a Fiery Demonstration of Actors’ Commitment in Spite of Tough Conditions

One approaches David Rabe’s brilliantly excessive drama about excess, “Hurlyburly,” with caution.

*

One does not usually approach it by way of cheery Ports O’ Call Village, where Cape Cod-style charm and petite flower and gift shops rule. This isn’t a place you’d expect to find what is possibly the most devastatingly profane and poetic American play of the last decade.

But, in one of those happenings that makes Southern California theater some kind of adventure, director Nancy Campbell’s production at cute little Ports O’ Call Playhouse is a remarkable achievement, a fiery demonstration of actors’ commitment in tough conditions.

If the three-hours-plus huge “Hurlyburly” is an “Iceman Cometh” of our time (and there’s a solid argument for the claim), then imagine “The Iceman Cometh” played to an audience of five.

That was the case on a recent Friday, and it didn’t make a difference. There is something about the drive, the fortitude, of Campbell’s cast that is so fascinatingly unlike the sweeping lassitude of Rabe’s Hollywood fringies, losers and cokeheads that it adds a new layer to the experience of the play. And as experiences go, this is a welcome and utterly surprising one.

In an impromptu chat with the audience before curtain, Campbell compared “Hurlyburly” to “Pulp Fiction,” thinking that fans of the latter would be natural fans of the former.

Well, Harvey Keitel was in both--as the doomed Phil in the original staging of “Hurlyburly” and as the Wolf in “Pulp”--and both stories are from writers who are in love with language and who dwell on lost men capable of violence.

But the many differences are so clear--Quentin Tarantino’s language, for example, is downright terse next to Rabe’s absurd hurricane torrents of talk--that Campbell nearly sent the wrong signal. Once again, it didn’t make a difference.

There’s an immediate aura of devastation that hangs around Jerry Prager’s Phil, the kind that only teetering middle-aged men give off. Prager exudes an internalized war of virility clashing with profound self-hatred that builds a very scary head of steam.

Phil may be the biggest, loudest, most diuretic-run-of-the-mouth loser of a central character that any playwright has ever dared in such a long play, and for an actor, he’s almost an impossible assignment. Phil is an O’Neill offspring snorting lines of coke instead of chugging whiskey; the same demons, pipe dreams and epic male tragedy in “Iceman” are deeply at work here.

Prager looks tough enough to make us think that Phil may ward off the terrible misogyny and paranoia that’s eating him alive, which makes this a truly wonderful and dramatic performance to witness. At points, the whole drama is in Prager’s / Phil’s body, the ego and id duking it out to the finish. It’s Rabe’s hell, but it’s actor heaven.

*

Lee St. James’ Eddie, a casting director friend trying forever to calm actor Phil down, is boldly unafraid of making us guess Eddie’s motives at every turn. St. James steadfastly refuses to help us pin Eddie down. Is his only agenda self-preservation? Does he have Phil around to remind himself that at least he’s not Phil? Is he capable of Phil’s violence, or can he cling to some civility? Again, very exciting shifting dramatic sands.

Even more exciting in the creepiness of it all is that we actually start to like these guys (here is, indeed, a link with “Pulp Fiction’s” play of cruelty and cool). Partly, it’s because everyone has a life, which the actors make vivid.

Rabe’s people live, though, by proclaiming, not by doing, which is what makes Jack Thomas’ take on his screenwriter character Artie so pathetically funny. Artie keeps talking about his “upcoming” deals, and Thomas actually makes us believe that the deals may get done. Again, there’s a strong, internalized battle going on.

The key in Campbell’s spatially compressed staging (there’s the suggestion of an apartment on the small, severe uncredited set) is that nobody here believes he’s lost; the actors emphasize each character’s self-absorption, a coat of armor against show-biz mendacity.

Derik Van Derbeken may seem a little too church-boy clean as Eddie’s sarcastic roommate Mickey, but it’s just another way to underline that Mickey thinks he’s above Phil’s and Eddie’s self-flagellation.

The women here aren’t just tossed about by the men but have real, distinct voices. Ginger Justin is a tough, towering Darlene, while Nancy Katerra builds exotic dancer Bonnie to a chilling rage. Elaine Orth, as young Donna, beautifully rounds the circle of this tragedy by underplaying this kid’s sadness.

Watching Rabe’s staging of “Hurlyburly” at the Westwood Playhouse in 1988 was like seeing some monumental scenery through fog; with all of the star casting (Danny Aiello, Sean Penn) and aimless staging, the play never got to us.

In this unlikely tourist corner with unknown actors, it gets to us, like a very rough slap in the face.

* “Hurlyburly,” Ports O’ Call Playhouse, Berth 75, Ports O’ Call Village, San Pedro. Thursdays, 7:30 p.m.; Fridays-Saturdays, 8 p.m. Ends April 29. $10-$18. (310) 548-5798. 3 hours, 15 minutes.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

Lee St. James: Eddie

Jerry Prager: Phil

Derik Van Derbeken: Mickey

Jack Thomas: Artie

Elaine Orth: Donna

Ginger Justin: Darlene

Nancy Katerra: Bonnie

A Ports O’ Call Playhouse production of David Rabe’s drama. Directed by Nancy Campbell. Technical director: Alan Soto.