CAREENING ABOUT: Brian Chamberlain and Christopher Reiling. |
Lined up neatly along the back of the St. Lawrence’s stage are shoes: Lots of them. Boots, pumps, loafers, all in pairs, stretching all the way from stage right to stage left. Their toes point forward gamely, expectantly, as if ready to be walked out into spots. Myriad and palpable are the characters that would fill those shoes, and in the Good Theater’s latest production, all of them — some twenty different souls — are channeled via the remarkable virtuosity of just two actors: The excellent Brian Chamberlain and Christopher Reiling slip in and out of leads and extras alike in the Good Theater’s superb, must-see Stones in his Pockets, a comedy about actors and acting, and a fine directorial debut of Stephen Underwood.
A big-shot American movie-in-the-making has descended upon a small Irish town, and local Jake (Chamberlain) and drifter Charlie (Reiling) are two of many extras who have signed up to cut turf and look quaint in period garb. In exchange, they get forty pounds a day, a catered lunch, and the thrill of close proximity to the beautiful, vapid American star Caroline Giovanni (Reiling). But they also have to contend with patronizing wranglers Aisling (Chamberlain) and Simon (Reiling), the film’s self-important director (Reiling), and the systematic exploitation of their accents, pub, and people.
Most of the other extras are related to Jake in some way, and include the rascally, hunched old Mickey (Chamberlain), a veteran of the Irish movie-extra industry, the rattled young Finn (Reiling), and scores of folks who just aren’t making what they used to off the land. Then there’s a local who hasn’t scored a movie job: the haunted addict Sean (Chamberlain), who underscores the drama and tragedy of the town’s real life.
All these people cavort in close proximity to each other, which calls for great speed and dexterity. And gloriously, hilariously, these two young actors are pure quicksilver. Costumes, set, and props are all minimal, the better to showcase the richness of Chamberlain’s and Reiling’s own resources: falsettos and eyebrows, limps and lips are all in the service of some impressive characterizations. With a spin, leap, reach, or lunge, Reiling’s impish Charlie morphs into the sinuous and mincing Caroline, or Chamberlain’s thoughtful Jake into the raucous extra Dave, who hands out pot and lines of coke at the pub. (“Happy days!” exults Charlie, the gin-riddled recipient of his largesse. “Fuck, I love the movies!”)
Such is the two actors’ virtuosity and rapport, in fact, that before long we’re too absorbed by their characters to keep on marveling at how well they’re pulling them off. That speaks volumes of their talent, and the effect is also vital for the show’s power. Because while Stones is certainly meant to showcase theatrical chops, there’s more at stake: a deep concern for the untold lot of the common guy.
Ultimately, Stones is a play about stories: Whose are told, whose ignored, whose exploited? Between the narratives of Hollywood, history, and our own fragile psyches, how do we shape our own stories, and how do they shape us? In the scrappy underdog populism of this script, a story becomes something to reclaim, a question of honor and agency. Those many shoes at the back of the stage stay in our view the whole play long. By the end, you almost expect each pair to walk downstage and act all on its own.
