BWW Reviews: Keegan's Raucous A BEHANDING IN SPOKANE Comes Off With Only One Hitch

Mothers, don't let your babies near Martin McDonagh; our Irish playwright has mastered the fine art of the maternal epithet to such a high degree that if they ever meet this guy, you will be forever associated in the wee tot's mind with murder, mayhem, spilt gasoline and-in this case at least-a severed body part or two.

Not that McDonagh is content to rest on his m**f**ing laurels; aficionados of obscenity have known for years that the man specializes in gleefully skewering everything sacred, decent and indecent. As soon becomes obvious in his latest stage work "A Behanding in Spokane," even the most toxic racial epithet in the American lexicon is grist for his mill. George Carlin can take a hike, because if there are any words to be banned in addition to the FCC's original 7, rest assured McDonagh has tested them for the stage and found their optimal comedic uses.

But whatever you do, don't take the man seriously. The key to appreciating the non-stop barrage of obscenity here lies in the cartoonish nature of his scenarios: as with the Irish greats before him, and as with the rogues' gallery of any Tarantino flick, the characters in "Behanding" do not serve a remotely realistic purpose, but are to be enjoyed for the sheer blissful, sinful fun of it.

In this case the action revolves around Carmichael, a deranged loner, and his search for a hand he lost to hoodlums some 27 years before. Mayhem ensues when a pair of petty criminals try to con him into buying-well, let's just say it turns out to be the hand of someone he is clearly not related to. The fact that one of the crooks and one of the hands in question happen to be black seems incidental to the plot; but they clearly are integral to McDonagh's conceit. Fans of his stage plays may be disappointed to learn that this show comes off without a death in sight, but for audiences new to his work there is plenty for the eye and ear to deal with.

Opening as it does at the tail end of the Lenten season, Keegan Theatre seems to be offering "Behanding" as a welcome antidote to the awe and reverence of the season (are you dreading the family Seder before it's even started? Sick to death of Easter eggs and plastic grass? Suffering from Pope Francis fatigue already? Have we got a show for you ...). Although not without its moments of drag and indecision the production is still guaranteed to leave you rolling in the aisles at the utter shamelessness of it all.

The supporting cast has bravely embraced the argot of our scatological poet laureate, with hilarious results: Manu Kumasi's Toby, a hapless dope-cum-hand dealer endures the worst racial invective of the show and gives a stand-out performance, shifting and weaving his way through the verbal and physical threats directed all around him. Kumasi is complemented nicely by Laura Herren as his blonde side-kick, Marilyn (note the name); Herren can connive with the best of them, and gives us a tantalizing hint of what might have been if McDonough had bothered to write her character any decent lines.

The show-stopper here, both literally and figuratively, rests with Bradley Foster Smith, who as Mervin constitutes the entire staff of the pathetic hotel where the play takes place. In the middle of the action he steps into the audience and then sprawls over the hotel's bed, negotiating a minefield of a monologue that ranges over a whole range of hypothetical crimes; Smith pulls it off with the spunk and grace of a certain late night talk-show host (Jimmy Fallon, call home; your evil twin has just turned up ...).

One sign of the limits to McDonagh's gifts, however, comes when the jokes hit too close to home. It's one thing to poke fun at perversions and crimes too remote to be taken seriously, but when characters muse at length on school mass-shootings it is clear that what was once conceived as punch-lines have now become moments for sober reflection. Let's call it the show's "Our American Cousin" moment; kudos to Colin and Bradley Foster Smith, Director and actor, for having the courage to preserve the play's original material; but kudos also to the audience-because we aren't about to laugh as if Newtown never happened.

Given the high-voltage performances here it is disappointing to report that Carmichael, the be-handed character of the title (played by Mark A. Rhea) is as withdrawn as a Chekhov sad-sack. Rhea's Carmichael may have a working stage pistol to keep us alert but his gruff, Nick Nolte-like delivery is utterly out of place in a piece that seems to demand-and reward-performances that are almost exclusively over-the-top. The pursuit of psychological realism in an extreme dark comedy like this has the effect of deflating a well-pumped carnival balloon.

Tony Angelini's discreet soundtrack, heavy on the Tom Waits, is a perfect scene-setter, and Kelly Peacock's costumes are pitch-perfect, right down to Mervyn's burgundy sweater and Carmichael's hideous boots. And a special shout-out to Craig Miller, whose hairstyles (however discreet) manage to communicate volumes about the characters nevertheless. This is an outrageously fun evening of theatre, even if a few opportunities for further cheap laughs were sorely missed.

"A Behanding in Spokane" plays at the Church Street Theatre from March 16-April 7, 2013.

For tickets go to www.keegantheatre.com, call 703-892-0202, or email the box office at boxoffice@keegantheatre.com.