Seeing Metcalf and Perry onstage together as mother and daughter is one of those beautiful things that come around too infrequently. The two are in real life mother and daughter, and Perry is every bit as wonderful as her mom in a touching final scene in which the roles of child and mother are reversed.
William Cusick's projections are wistful and gloomy — seeping darkness often fills the back wall — and Fitz Patton's soundscape, which alternates from scratchy telephone calls to barely tolerable electronica, is spot on.
The single, spare set by Eugene Lee and Edward Pierce, which consists of interlocking wood frames, seems to reach for a Piet Mondrian vibe but ends up looking too much like a bunch of old lobster pots nailed together.
Though the play is just over an hour long, Metcalf works the hardest and longest, never leaving the limelight. She's in a fancy chair in the middle of the stage, legs crossed, picking at a smartphone or staring into space as the audience enters the theater. It's her only moment of calm before a stunning, frantic and moving piece of theater.
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