Playwright: David Farr. At: Appetite Theatre at Chicago Dramatists, 1105 W. Chicago Ave. Phone: ( 773 ) 275-1931; $15. Runs through: July 10
The football team—or soccer, to us Yanks—representing Watford, England, was at the pinnacle of its half-century climb to the National Championship in 1984. But during the Cup Finals at Wembley Stadium, a freak fumble lost them the game. The legend arose that sunshine reflecting off the ornate eyewear of club owner Elton John—yes, THAT Elton John—had momentarily dazzled the player, causing him to lose the ball.
And 10 years later, that's what die-hard fan Bill still believes, secluded in his cottage across the street from the neighborhood arena, staring at his VCR, reliving the crucial moment like Dickens' Miss Havisham reincarnated as a middle-aged bachelor. Dan, his rock-musician brother, hasn't done well either. After six years on the road, the latter returns home with his band to gather himself before their next gig—and to get their instruments out of hock. But while the homily about crazy people making sane people do crazy things is manifestly accurate, the dynamic sometimes works the other way as well.
Since this is a British, and not an American, comedy, it CAN'T end with everyone getting their Heart's Desire and living happily ever after. Not homebody bassist Shaun, whose mother all but paid the rock-and-rollers to take him on. Not myopic drummer Tim, forced to abandon his glasses for fear of offending their host. Not Julie, Bill's lonely housewife paramour. Not Amy, the athletic teenager next door. And certainly not our two brothers, one of whom has given up hope, and the other who doggedly refuses to do so. But author David Farr hasn't lost hope, either, and ensures that their stories finish in possibilities of better days to come.
The cast for this Appetite Theater production must careen between gloomy working-class cynicism and three-door-slam farce, but never do they lose control of their characters, instead sharing their personae's every expedient-driven calculation and unspoken yearning with us, so that we cheer on each small victory over the crippling despair that leads to wasting isolation. Haven't we had plenty of practice at this, ourselves, here in the home of the Chicago Cubs?