Review: The Wasp, an Unexpected Thriller in a Private Loft

A small crowd gathers in a dimly lit loft in the financial district for what might just be this Halloween’s most satisfying theatrical event. It’s Little Engine Theater’s intimate production of Morgan Lloyd Malcolm’s The Wasp, a modern-day penny dreadful that seamlessly walks the line between horror and camp. Take your old school friends (and enemies) and have a drink at the bar first, because this show is a scream.

Heather (Colby Minifie) and Carla (Amy Forsyth) weren’t exactly besties in school, and we know this immediately from Carla’s scowl when she first sees Heather, who has invited her to tea (we’re in England). Despite Heather’s performative cheeriness, we quickly discern that Carla was her bully. Since then, everything has panned out exactly according to the fairytale of liberalism that powers young meritocrats through adolescence: Heather has become fabulously wealthy and successful, while Carla toils in the underground economy to feed four children. And she’s pregnant with her fifth.

They betray their class difference in their diction: Heather is dinner-party posh, while Carla seems to have stepped out of an episode of EastEnders. Rodrigo Muñoz costumes them accordingly, with Carla in tracky bottoms opposite Heather’s drycleaned business casual. What could possibly bring these two women together, after 20 years of estrangement?

Well, it turns out that Heather is extremely unhappy in her marriage. Remembering Carla’s penchant for animal cruelty, Heather would like to hire her to murder her husband. “As if thirty grand isn’t something you’re desperate for,” she tempts her, clutching a handbag stuffed with cash. And reluctantly, Carla agrees.

There are more twists and turns after that, some more ludicrous than others. Malcolm’s naked contrivance seems calculated to both scandalize the audience and (unfortunately) provide a pretext for long, philosophical monologues about empathy and human motivation. It’s fairly rough in terms of construction.

But it’s honestly so refreshing to encounter a playwright who has so little regard for the fashionable manners and sociological rules that bind the hands of so many of her contemporaries. There’s just so much fertile territory where writers fear to tread, but not Malcolm. These two women seem written specifically to aggravate feminists of all waves, and judging from the exasperated sighs of the woman seated next to me, mission accomplished.

The performers do an excellent job of selling this highly implausible material. Forsyth does it by maintaining an air of incredulity, as if she cannot quite believe the events of the play in which she is appearing. Her comic timing is top-notch, and her one-word responses to Heather’s florid speeches had me howling.

Fully embracing the trope of the insane redhead, Minifie delivers a performance that is as unhinged as it is specific. Her maniacal grin and wide eyes have us hanging on every last overwritten word. She’s obsessive. She’s a control freak. She’s well-read yet guarded, expressing only the most anodyne opinions even as she plots unspeakable brutality. She’s like a cross between Hermione Granger and Hannibal Lecter. In short, she’s a hilarious send-up of the English professional class.

Rory McGregor directs a taut and suspenseful production in this unconventional space, a corner of which Tony Award-winning scenic designer Scott Pask has transformed into Heather’s sitting room. Mostly in shades of green, with gruesome display cases featuring pinned insects hanging on the wall, it conveys dark elegance on a budget. A nocturne softly plays from the stereo in the corner, both soothing and sinister (sound design by Brian Hickey). Lighting designer Stacey Derosier hits that shadowy sweet spot that still allows us to see every twitch and faint expression on the performers’ faces. The production values are totally professional, which is somewhat surprising to encounter in a found space like this.

It’s no surprise, however, that The Wasp debuted a decade ago in London, where theater is much more of a drinking experience and less of what it has so tragically become in New York—church for secular liberals. Little Engine, a company that was founded last year by three young foreign-born women, has a mission to present new work by writers living outside of America, which is exactly what this shockingly parochial town and its insular theaters need to escape this rut. Get to know them, because they’re going to be a big deal.