Directed by Ashley Ricord Santos, the Irish playwright’s black comedy follows a one-handed man named Carmichael, played with gruff sincerity by John Grimsley, in the midst of his lifetime search for a missing hand. It has led him to a run-down, god-awful hotel in the middle of nowhere America. The plot is simple: Marilyn (Natalie Boyd) and her boyfriend Toby (James Bartelle) try to scam Carmichael out of $500 by giving him a severed hand not remotely resembling his own. Throw in the wild card of a disgruntled hotel receptionist, played by quirky A.J. Allegra, and hilarity is intended to ensue.

 

 

It can be very dangerous to play a comedy funny, a tragedy sad, or for that matter, a weird play weird. That is precisely what happens in Behanding. Ricord Santos allows her actors to fall into the trap of over-acting the play’s punch lines, and this undercuts the disturbingly humorous potential of several moments.  Furthermore, with the exception of the expertly crafted silence that begins and ends the show, the production strangely lacks dynamism. All is played at one hundred percent. Yes, tensions are high when the deal goes wrong, and, yes, Carmichael’s agents of revenge are a gas can and a gun. However, the stakes are equal to the emotions, and that is the issue. Slow burns and variety would have greatly benefited this production. It is not that the performances are bad, but with the occasional exception of Boyd, they are just in the wrong show.

 

 

Still, there are pleasures to be had. Ricord Santos knows how to block a show and keep the story moving. Some of my favorite moments emerged when the director and her actors laid the mugging aside and brought quiet control to the table. Some of the playful, rapid-fire dialogue between Boyd, Bartelle, and Allegra was right on the money. Carmichael’s matter-of-fact shooting into a closet towards an unidentified moan before silently returning to the bed for a long drag on his cigarette felt straight out of David Lynch. And when the young couple first discovers what is in the suitcase, it had the desired effect of audience members jumping from their seats.

 

 

And Allegra and Grimsley each has a moment that salvages the show. As Mervyn, Allegra waxes about wanting to be a hero, a love of monkeys, and an abhorrence for zoos. He handles his centerpiece monologue with a clinically insane verve, and it delivers the evening’s biggest laughs. Matching Allegra in madness, Grimsley brings an unexpected but much needed vulnerability to the one-handed man on a mission. Even as Carmichael is threatening to do awful things, you cannot hate him entirely. Carmichael’s long phone call to his mother who fell out of a tree and broke her ankles trying to remove a balloon is the highlight of his murderously sentimental performance.

 

 

Overall, the technical work was impressive. Boyd, doubling as a costume designer, gives these characters a little more depth with small but important touches in her design: an un-tucked shirt, a well-worn jacket, a single earring, brightly colored shoes. Jason Kirkpatrick’s box set, complete with a ceiling and hanging lamp and carpet on the floor, was dingy, dirty perfection. There were unknown stains on the closet door and the carpet, the wallpaper was old and bubbling, and the drapes were fringed and falling apart. All of it is drenched in a lighting design by Sam Dudley that has a few clever tricks and gives the room a sickly yellow look that says nothing good can happen here.

 

 

The one design element that misfires involves the show’s most Grand Guignol aspect. I do not believe I am spoiling too much by saying that there are a lot of severed hands and fingers in this show. Instead of being grossed out by them, I was underwhelmed. Though I understand we are not operating in an ideal world of unlimited budgets, they stood out as obviously plastic and fake. Against Kirkpatrick’s exquisitely detailed set, this was particularly jarring. And since the show is not for the faint-hearted, if the dialogue calls for children’s hands, we need to see them.

 

 

Finally, while I am usually a fan of McDonagh’s writing, Behanding is not his finest hour. It seems derivative of his stronger work. The script’s lack of depth is difficult to escape, and if played in the manner of this production, the evening quickly begins to feel like a series of vaguely connected comedy sketches that do not always land their punch lines. The characters are flat, the plot is lacking, and the circular logic of the whole thing is only bearable for about twenty minutes. The performance style only serves to heighten those realities. The script’s problems perhaps proved a little too challenging for the talented and enthusiastic NOLA Project ensemble. But they sure put up one hell of a fight. For that, I applaud them with both hands.