The direction by Louise Davis built a grounded conversational bridge between each actor and their imaginary interlocutor embodied by us the audience. Marcie Maxfield’s writing left myself and the two professional women I was in the company of, deeply affected at moments, and heartedly elevated at others. The understandings being set forward by the story and dialogue brought ground level insight into the world a lot of women find themselves contending with, sans male bashing, and without complaint for the sake of itself. It becomes an offering of information brought down by a loving Goddess.
The only minor drawback, seemed at moments, to be the nerves of the performers. Dialogue was lost to stumbling tongue for what seemed to be a strict holding to the words of the playwright. I would personally be able to maintain my understanding of each story if the performers felt more comfortable to wander from dialogue at a moment or two, considering the setting felt as personal and minimal as a standup comedy routine, as opposed to feeling a stumped need to rewind a word or two back to find the through line.
Someone once said, “Being a man in this world seems to be akin to growing up in a room with red walls and red furniture, but one day leaving and being asked to describe the color red.” After seeing this play I learned a bit more about how to describe the red room that is the world around me.