Hand to God

Or: The devil in me

Playwright Robert Askins paints in broad strokes. Everything; the rage, the lust, is voiced and acted on, spread out for our horror and delight. Fitting, given the title of his blockbuster is an exclamation of honesty, and bad things happen when people try to suppress their feelings. His director at Victory Gardens, Gary Griffen, has ecstatically brought Askins play to life in a bloody romp.

After losing her husband, Margery (Janelle Snow) resident of suburban Texas town has turned to the church for comfort, running a junior puppet club. Her three charges, under the longing eyes of Pastor Greg (Eric Slater), are Jessica (Nina Ganet), troubled and riots youth Timothy (Curtis Edward Jackson) and her own son Jason (Alex Weisman), the only one of the “Christ-a-tiers” to have created a puppet: Tyrone (Alex Weisman). Trouble is, Tyrone has more of a pull over Jason than he would care to admit, and begins to take on a life all his own.

“Possessed puppets.” Is that fantastic premise or what? Griffen treats us to everything such an enticing phrase might lead us to, assisted by the satanically clever properties designer Michael Dold and scored by Christopher Kriz. Thrilling funny and even times crossing the threshold of genuinely horrifying, we bounce from one outrageous action to another, random rutting, awkward proposals, acts of violence, and recriminations galore; pulled along more often then most by Tyrone, flappy armed, bug-eyed, nasally-Audrey II-sounding Mephisto.

Sadly, by dint of the writing, both Ganet and Snow have to pull double weight to keep up with the play. It’s not that Margery or Jessica aren’t essential, or smart, or complicated characters; they’re just not quite as substantial as Jason or Paster Greg or even the carnal Timothy (Jackson has a lovely comic turn for suffering, but never quite taps the vein of empathy Griffen seems to expect from us). We rarely see how the women think, but only watch what they do. Snow anchors herself by sinking her roots deep into Margery’s Texasity, both in voice, bearing and rail-straight commitment to any course of action she chooses. Ganet, who gives Jessica a quiet, nudging air, does wonders with listening; when she plays along with Tyrone’s world her duality of playing along with the puppets fantasy and watching Jason from the outside, is a master stroke of acting.

The center of the play, however, despite the amazing sets, and tongue’n cheek pokes at christianity, rests entirely across Weisman’s shoulders. His tour de Force of acting for two as Jason and Tyrone battle for control of one hand. Despite the near blinding shine of Tyrone (those slow turns, those in your wide mouth antics!) we also see Jason’s shock and discomfort with the words coming out of his mouth as he is lured to the dark side.

Hand to God is rendered in broad strokes. Taken at it’s base elements a fair chunk of the dialog and actions taken should not fly as high or surely as they do, caught in the jet stream of Askin’s story. Indeed much of Tyrone’s speech would loose the power to tickle were is delivered in any other way but by absurdity of Tryone’s appearance and range of motion. Yet all A moment, when Tyrone climbs his spindly armed way up the side of Jason’s bed to wake, snout to nose combines everything the play is: ticklish, goose pump raising, and oddly sweet.

Despite what may be said, it’s not a story about grief, or religion, or even, as Tyrone would have it, the eternal battle between Id and Superego, what’s right for everyone vs. what’s right for me. It sails closet to the wind as just the story of a boy and his demoniacal hand puppet.