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Imagine a rendezvous between two strangers in a deluxe hotel room in Rome, tinged with rosy afternoon light and a glorious cascade of pealing bells. Sound deliciously romantic? Well, when the "brief encounter" is between a bad-boy Hollywood screenwriter and a troubled older priest -- and has been acid-penned by Mart Crowley, author of "The Boys in the Band" -- you'll need more than a seatbelt, darling. Prepare for Armageddon.
At Dobama Theatre, director Lenny Pinna has approached Crowley's "For Reasons That Remain Unclear" as a Hitchcock-like suspense thriller. Its first act has a quality of tense, witty menace reminiscent of "Strangers on a Train". It's homoerotic, and full of indirection, but the striptease is all psychological; under the innuendo you can feel a trap ready to spring.
Once the long-awaited fireworks start, and the secrets start pouring out, the play veers into some hefty melodrama, and the writing (and some of the action) gets pretty purple. But even with some flaws, it's a lively, engaging evening in the theatre.
First, the production looks splendid -- there's an accomplished cast, intelligent direction, and topnotch designs. Ron Newell's hotel room set is lavish, down to the oriental rug and Empire furniture; it's burnished with warm light and a seductive breeze that rustles the balcony curtains. Corby Grubb's sound design of bells and street sounds adds subtly to the atmosphere.
In this elegant setting, the acting shines. Scott Plate is seductive, waspish, and sinister all at once as Patrick, a gay screenwriter with a permanent curl to his lip. Immaculately barbered, posing languidly in designer clothes (Sara Van Loon's costumes are just right), he stalks his priestly prey like a sleek handsome cougar. He's all attitude -- from entertaining bitchiness to casual self-deprecation -- which, combined with Pinna's cat-and-mouse blocking, imbues most of the first act with a sense of risk and unpredictability. It's a pleasure to simply watch him perch on the arm of a divan and cross his legs.
Mitchell Fields as "Don't Call Me Father" Conrad projects a beaming geniality that eventually rings hollow. Sporting grey hair and Roman collar, he zigzags between self-congratulatory homilies and an almost girlish flirtatiousness. You can practically see him pinching himself over his good fortune with Patrick, and yet sense his unease with how he's overmatched. Rounding out the cast, Stephen C. Adams has several brief appearances as a knowing Italian waiter.
Although I could see Crowley's Nemesis-filled second act from a long way off, I hesitate to reveal the tenor of the revelations, since it would spoil some of the nasty fun of the first two-thirds. Suffice it to say that there's a major switcheroo, one that puts the actors through a histrionic obstacle course, and some audience credulity to the test. Suddenly there are more issues at stake than would fill the Sunday editorial page.
Both Plate and Fields make strong choices with the material, although it's impossible, given the writing, not to go over the top here and there. Pinna's stylish direction moves the intermissionless play along with a deft sense of control. He gets his actors through Crowley's emotional roller coaster with their dignity and acting chops intact. It's a bravura performance.
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