Buried Child. Sam Shepard's Buried Child, which won a Pulitzer Prize in 1979, still carries a creepy wallop. The story of a violently dysfunctional family — a drunken, abusive father who has destroyed his sons and is now being destroyed in return — it was hailed in its time as a depiction of the dark side of the American Dream...or the American family. But while some of the themes are universal, this family is unique. There's father Dodge, coughing his lungs out on the sofa, and his wife, Halie, mourning for a lost son, Ansel, who died after marrying a Catholic woman about whom Halie has the darkest suspicions. Two of their sons still live. Tilden, once a promising athlete, is now an empty shell who, although the family's fields have been barren for years, periodically brings in armloads of corn that he insists he harvested outside. Bradley is filled with impotent rage that he can't act out because he once sawed off his own leg by accident. Into this swirl of madness enters Tilden's son, Vince, accompanied by his girlfriend, Shelly. On one level, this sounds like a cheesy Hollywood chainsaw movie, complete with terrified girl, incest and rumors of murder, but Buried Child is more resonant and complex than that. Images of fertility and decay persist, and the play is full of objects and movements that vibrate with a significance that can occasionally be articulated but more often only intuited: Shelly cutting up carrots while Tilden watches, mesmerized; Shelly's rabbit coat; a strength-destroying haircut; corn husks. Then there are the trademark Shepard monologues: The playwright's dialogue is always evocative and filled with interesting rhythms, but these monologues, while they explain nothing on a literal level, tend to carry his deeper meaning. Presented by the Edge Theatre Company through November 16, 1560 Teller Street, Lakewood, 303-232-0363, theedgetheatre.com. Reviewed October 30.
Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike. For Christopher Durang, Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spikeis pretty weak tea. While the play is relatively funny and does have some outrageously inventive moments, the black humor, zany surprise, sheer unfettered impudence and break-the-dishes iconoclasm of Durang's other works is missing. As the title makes clear, the work is (sort of) an homage to Chekhov. Vanya and Sonia, a middle-aged brother and (adopted) sister, stayed home caring for their Alzheimer-ravaged parents while a third sibling, glamorous Masha, became a wealthy movie star. The two wither quietly in their rather luxurious country house while Masha pays the bills. But then she descends with her young lover, Spike, and proceeds to stage a series of monstrous, flamboyant displays that would make a drag queen green with envy. She's determined to go to a costume party at the home of an influential neighbor dressed as Walt Disney's Snow White and insists that everyone else attend her as dwarves. But Sonia suddenly displays an unexpected independence. She trots off to the local thrift shop and returns wearing a glittering, sequin-studded gown: She is going to the party as the Wicked Queen as played by Maggie Smith on her way to the Oscars, she explains. You don't need to know Chekhov to enjoy this play, but the references do add humor as Sonia repeatedly laments, "I am a wild turkey," and the family bickers about its cherry orchard, which consists of nine or ten trees. And just as Chekhov's characters resisted modernity, Vanya springs into a fury when Spike starts texting in the middle of Nina's performance. Only his exasperation — a lament for stamps you need to lick and phones with rotary dials — is diaphragm-shaking funny. And after that, unexpectedly, Durang provides a quietly hopeful and entirely un-Chekhovian ending. Presented by the Denver Center Theatre Company through November 16, Ricketson Theatre, Denver Performing Arts Complex, 303-893-4100, denvercenter.org. Reviewed October 23.
