No? Some patrons may do just that, and they may also feel that there's something preemptive about O'Hanlon's speech to the audience. It sounds like an attempt to head off criticism of this Anne Bogart-Charles L. Mee collaboration, ostensibly an approximation of how Robert Rauschenberg has approached his work since 1962, when the artist discovered that he could silkscreen on canvas. Employing that process, he began creating large collages -- to which he has often added three-dimensional objects like stuffed animals and tires -- as his artistic response to life in America.
The Rauschenberg canvases, typically chockablock with superimposed and disparate images, may seem arbitrarily juxtaposed, but the result in the best works is a sense of inevitability. The whole is a trenchant comment on the sum of its parts. Other creators working to make an art stew in Rauschenberg fashion, as Bogart and Mee have deliberately elected to do, may encounter an obvious pitfall: Lacking Rauschenberg's expertise, they might come up with something that isn't so much inevitable as avoidable.
Much of what Bogart and Mee heave into bobrauschenbergamerica is, to use O'Hanlon's word, junk -- or if not junk, certainly of questionable value. Determined to reflect America as their predecessor has, the director and the dramatist (Mee says the pair think of themselves as "Rauschenbergians") have linked a series of high-test scenes that take place in front of and on an American flag, half of which rises from the stage and half of which is painted on the floor. (James Schuette's is the production's set and costume designer.) In other words, the actors treading the boards -- many of them Bogart regulars -- are also treading on the flag. But has anyone involved with the production stopped to think that the American flag, while clearly pertinent to a play called bobrauschenbergamerica, is not a signature symbol for Rauschenberg? It's more regularly associated with the artist's longtime pal and one-time building mate, Jasper Johns.
The flag here, in which there's a screen door and a couple of other hinged openings, is supposedly the backdrop for a picnic presided over by the artist's mother (Kelly Maurer in a tight '40s perm). Mom interrupts to talk about her boy and to point out that "art wasn't a part of our lives." As events skew from the initial gathering, Bogart and Mee happen on a number of amusing interludes, a development that should be pointed out to anyone who considers leaving during the "junk"-rife first half-hour. The fun begins when a character called Susan, while stuffing cake into her maw, launches into a monologue about the disparate ways in which women and men regard their feelings; this is a tour de force bit for Lauren Avers as Susan, who explains that a woman understands what she's feeling whereas a man "won't know what he feels when he feels it."
There's a sequence in which a character identified as Phil's Girl (Akiko Aizawa) unfolds a large sheet of plastic, pours a bottle of gin on it, passes a bottle of vermouth over it, drops a few dozen olives and then -- joined by boyfriend Phil, the Trucker (Leon Pauli) -- slides around on her woman-made martini pond. There's a lively square dance cut short by a gunshot and a fallen victim. (Sound designer Darron L. West provides his own Rauschenberg-like music collage throughout.) Phil the Trucker tells a series of chicken jokes worth many a cluck -- er, chuckle. Chickens, incidentally, crop up more than once in this show: At one point, a man in a chicken suit crosses the stage so that the hoary "chicken crossing the road" wheeze can be invoked.
Okay, Bogart and Mee see the United States as a catch-as-catch-can place in which even the decades are overlaid; Mom, who serves no apple pie, is locked in the '40s, while Carl refers to his computer. But catch-as-catch-can is often hit-and-miss, which is what they've got here. When it hits, there's joy in the air; when it misses, the effect is reminiscent of '60s avant-garde theater, something Ronald Tavel might have turned out on a bad day. Will Bond, playing a scientist (at least some of the time), has a few Thornton Wilder-like speeches about the universe and its predictability as a system in contrast to human unpredictability, but there's nothing fresh in them. The piece can even be seen as an entry in the 9/11 playwriting sweepstakes.