Dead Man's Cell Phone. Photo by Michael Brosilow.
Playwright: Sarah Ruhl
At: Steppenwolf Theatre, Upstairs,
1650 N. Halsted
Phone: 312-335-1650; $20-$68
Runs through: July 27
Former Chicagoan Sarah Ruhl is nothing if not theatrically ambitious. Her last work, Passion Play, took on 600 years of Christian tradition and socio-religious politics—a shaggy beast of a play she couldn't quite pull together. Her latest play, Dead Man's Cell Phone, is smaller, far less sociopolitical and more focused on individual stories. It engages cosmic subject matter, including life, death and the afterlife, but it's schematic in structure and character, like one of the better sitcoms. Dead Man's Cell Phone is pithy, really funny, well-performed and well-directed ( by Jessica Thebus, who rarely does wrong ) . It's a good night out, but not one that can withstand close scrutiny. Similar to plays such as Art and Proof, it's sure to be a widely-produced at regional houses nationwide.
The heroine is Jean ( Polly Noonan ) , who is in her late 30s, unwed and something of an empty vessel. We never learn what she does, where she's from, whom her friends or family are, or—most importantly—how she's retained her uncynical child-like naivety towards life. When she discovers a dead man slumped over his soup in a cafe, she answers his repeatedly ringing cell phone and soon meets the deceased's mistress, wife, mother and brother, and learns too much about his black-market business. She comforts and charms everyone by inventing the dead man's last words they long to hear. She and the brother connect, and after Jean has a close call with Death and meets the dead man in Limbo, she and Bro head into the sunset. Jean remains a catalyst for the others to progress in life, and even engineers the dead man's redemption. A meeting in Limbo? Yeah, Sarah Ruhl writes what's called magic realism, in which improbable or fanciful things happen within a probable context.
Noonan, who is the play's throughline, is warmly appealing, goofy and earnest all at the same time. The other characters each strut their stuff in one or two terrific scenes with Molly Regan leading the pack as the starchy, patrician dead man's mother, half Lady Bracknell and half refugee from an A. R. Gurney play. This is a performance to savor. Marc Grapey, the dead man, opens Act II with a wonderful monologue about his final moments. Less showy but equally engaging are Mary Beth Fisher ( the wife ) , Coburn Goss ( the gentle brother ) and Sarah Charipar ( the mistress ) . Scenic designer Scott Bradley channels Edward Hopper's famous café painting in angular color block forms.
One hopes Ruhl continues to strive and grow as a writer. Lines such as, 'You're very comforting, I don't know why. You're like a small casserole.' are deliciously funny within a more important dramatic context, but they're not drama itself. Heaven forbid we lose her to TV.
