“What does a man have to
do to run a pig farm around here?” wonders the harried Tom
(Dan Fredenburgh), the hero (of sorts) of Greg Kotis’s comedy, which has just
opened at St. James Theatre, in a production directed by the aptly named Katharine
Farmer. As the owner of a struggling
farm in an unspecified area of Hicksville, USA, Tom’s troubles are multiple: a
dopey hired hand, Tim (Erik Odom) who’s as much hindrance as help, and a
frustrated wife, Tina (Charlotte Parry), who’s desperate for a kid. Mostly,
though, Tom’s worried about the impending visit from an Environmental
Protection Agency officer, Teddy (Stephen Tompkinson), who, when he arrives,
turns out to be a gun-toting functionary with a habit of walking into the
couple’s kitchen at decidedly inopportune moments.
A slice of rowdy backwoods
Americana with a touch of the Coen Bros about it, Pig Farm is unexpectedly engaging for a good part of its running time. Although there are
weaker elements from the off (the running-gag repetition of the characters' alliterative names, for one), Kotis – best known for writing the book and
lyrics for Urinetown - shows skill in keeping the dialogue
just the right side of cartoonish, using hick diction for poetic as well as comedic
effects.
The play’s satire on changes
in farming practices and federal government interventions is well managed, and Farmer’s
bright production seems to find the writing’s strengths, aided by a fine set
design by Carla Goodman and some great
music choices. (No production that includes Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” as
interval music can be entirely without merit.) The excellent cast also performs brilliantly.
Parry, in particular, even manages to bring some plangent grace notes to what
could be an extremely problematic characterisation, as she skilfully conveys
Tina’s longings, while also throwing herself with hilarious abandon into a sex
scene with Odom that’s a great parody of the Lange/Nicholson kitchen encounter in
The Postman Always Rings Twice.
Given these strong points,
it’s a shame that Kotis’s play finally blows it, undoing its competent work with a
grotesquely extended final stretch that’s off in every department, not least in
its cavalier approach to violence. (Lapped up by most of the chortling
audience, it must be said.) Since, by this stage, the protagonists have gone beyond
caricature to actually mean something to us, the final slide into bloody farce not
only seems about the weakest way possible for the play to conclude: it also makes
you feel an idiot for caring in the first place.
Booking until November 21st.
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