Bingo With The Indians

Jason Platt

Adam Rapp is nothing if not prolific; Bingo With The Indians is the third new play by Rapp to have its New York premier this calendar year, following shows at Playwrights Horizons and Rattlestick. Bingo, like most of Rapp's plays, has an undercurrent of otherworldliness, an over-the-top intensity to the expletive-laden mundanity of everyday life that generally divides his audience into two sects: those who follow him with a pseudo-rock star devotion, and those who find him irrelevant. Bingo With The Indians will likely serve as fodder for both.

The play follows the exploits of an underappreciated theatrical troupe who make the trip to New Hampshire to rob a church bingo game in the hopes of getting seed money to fund their next production. One question surely to be asked is whether you like your theater to be about theater; not in a subtle metatheatrical sense, but rather in the form of a mockumentary. The questions and problems of creating theater (or any art) -- its meaning in an unappreciative world, its self-important irrelevance, its transformative power -- pervade the piece. Rapp presents both sides of the question, portraying the New York troupe as the ultimate, obliviously highbrow group of downtown youths, while also giving a deeply moving portrait of Steve (the New Hampshire teen who runs the motel they stay at), who desires nothing so much as to be taken to the city to lose himself in the dissolving reality theater offers. This dialogue regarding the significance of theater in the contemporary world is by far the most interesting and engaging aspect of the play, and its resolution (or lack thereof) perhaps the most frustrating. It feels as though Rapp never comes down cleanly on one side of the issue, though one suspects he is attempting to, particularly given the ending (a sequence that would be a spoiler to give away, but suffice it to say there is significant quoting of Chekhov). Indeed, the text at times almost feels like a conflation of three or four unrelated texts, all with their own rhythms and focus, which does at times undermine the piece.

However, if anything can lead one to glossing over the piece's discrepancies, it is the fantastic performances given by the cast, all members of the Bats, The Flea's resident (unpaid) acting company. Evan Enderle in particular gives an enormously heartbreaking performance as the fragile and hopeful Steve (one of the most moving pieces of acting I have seen this year), and his often stage partner Rob Yang is also fascinating as a chilly, manipulative stage manager. The other actors are strong as well, though their characters frequently feel unplumbed, almost certainly due both to Rapp's writing and directing. Rapp has particularly always had a problem with creating female characters, which continues with the three women in Bingo. Such a situation could likely be rectified by having a director other than the writer heading the production and lending another perspective, but Rapp appears bent on maintaining full control over his productions.

At a fairly taut 90 minutes, the piece never loses any momentum, though those not particularly enchanted by gratuitous nudity and scatological humor may find themselves checking out: there were numerous grimaces and eye-coverings in the audience throughout the play. That being said, the play does leave one with a question, and I continued to engage in a discussion with my friends long after the piece was over, which is achieved so infrequently these days. If you are looking for an intense and intimate (I cannot emphasize that enough) theatrical experience, this is certainly going to be of interest to you, and the performances carry the day. However, if you have not found yourself attracted to Rapp's work in the past, this is not the piece to convert you.