Can the denizens of the Granite State really not have evolved since the Stone Age? Can they really be as crass, coarse and sewer-mouthed as portrayed here and in the playwright's previous opus, Small Engine Repair? Let's hope not, because these characters make Tobacco Road seem as genteel as Park Avenue.
The only thing that can be said for this putrid little item is that it's less violent and cretinous than its loathsome predecessor. Otherwise, it's just as foul, rank, and clunky.
In both works, the author seems to be aspiring to make the greatest use of the f-word in the history of the theatre. Someone from Guinness, please inform him that he's the undisputed champion in that regard, and that his record will likely never be broken. Perhaps he can then rest on his laurels and leave us poor theatregoers alone.
******* Spoiler alert. *****
This is yet another play that offers a "surprise," one the author takes great pains to pull off. Unfortunately for him, the Playbill flummoxes him. Frankly, the payoff wasn't worth the effort--- nor was the play.
Truth be told, I've had just about enough of these "surprises." Instead of contorting themselves into a pretzel to effect them, playwrights should just focus on writing a decent play. That would be accomplishment enough.
Expect raves from the critics.