No. 11 (Blue and White)
No. 11 is the story of Reid (Joey Shea), a cocky and malicious senior at what appears to be a posh New England prep school. It is also the story of Alex (Katie Walder), Reid's best friend and partner in banter, a beautiful and self-possessed young woman with a definite mean streak of her own. What precious little emotional movement occurs in the play is within Alex, whose affection for Reid--as well as her feelings about herself--are tested by his monstrous actions. It doesn't give anything away to say that Reid is a rapist. He's also a bully, a liar, and a cheat, the kind of guy who threatens to punch his mother ("I don't care who you are") when her questions get too personal. Helping to make such an unredeemable personality believable--besides the fact that, sadly, No. 11 is based on real events--is that Reid represents the logical extreme of the mean-spirited world Cunningham has painted around her characters, the end result of a universe nearly absent of sympathy.
Whether Cunningham is offering an indictment of spoiled youth in general or simply giving us a portrait of one dysfunctional microcosm, No. 11 is a scathing piece of work. Unfortunately, in this debut New York City production, the slings and arrows often fall short of the mark. It might be the casting (of Shea in particular) that's not working, or it might be the efforts of director Daniel Aukin, but the performances generally lack the self-confidence to make such a brash piece of writing take root. Shea's Reid--arch and ironic, insecure and wavering in his meanness--acts most of the time like he's just plain bored. To a lesser extent, the same is true of Walder's Alex and the other cool kids (Adam Groves and Robin Taylor as Reid's peanut gallery, Liza Lapira as his clueless girlfriend). Eventually, watching people being bored on stage gets boring. It doesn't help that Aukin keeps the pacing of the show kind of pokey, leaving room for all sorts of raised-eyebrow beats and sidelong glances when what's needed is bam-bam-bam dialogue for all the put-downs and braggadocio to fly.
Another problem is in the construction of the piece; perhaps out of fealty to actual events, Cunningham's ending is largely inconclusive. Instead of answers to the questions raised by the narrative, we get Alex's personal, internal resolution--or something approaching resolution. Though the young woman's semi-catharsis is beautifully rendered in a long, painful monologue by Walder that continues the play's dialogue between love and violence, one wishes Cunningham had found a way to end the narrative as well as Alex's emotional journey.