It's a large Upper West Side apartment, populated by four authors in search of, yes, characters but also encouragement and enlightenment and, in some cases, success. Theresa Rebeck's play "Seminar" at St. Louis Actors' Studio gives us four young and young-ish authors who have paid big bucks for ten weekly sessions with a formerly famous author who now works for one of the New York publishing houses. The apartment is the residence of Kate, one of the two young women whose family has had it for several generations; she, like the others, is struggling to be a better writer and, presumably, to be published. Played by Taylor Pietz, she's been working on one story for six years.
We also have Douglas, Nathan Bush, whose work is being considered by the New Yorker, but perhaps that's because his uncle is a famous author. It certainly isn't because his style is Hemingwayesque; he's dazzlingly esoteric, especially in the scene that opens the play. Jason Contini plays Martin, a high school pal of Kate, who talks a fair amount but doesn't reveal much. And then there's Alicia Smith's lissome Izzy, who plans to cement whatever fame her writing brings by appearing nude on the cover of New York Magazine.
The writing seminars are conducted by Leonard, played by John Pierson. He's not just fierce, he's downright malicious, strewing venom like ragweed pollen, first on one participant, then another, except, amazingly enough, Izzy - who looks at him rapturously and demonstrates unmeltable butter in her mouth.
The first act is very funny. I kept looking around for the Woody Allen character - after all, it's a brittle New York comedy, very literate, lots of name-dropping, numerous bon mots. But soon after the second act opens, there's a turn in the tone that changes things considerably.
Good work from Pietz, whose character's slow blossoming from potato chips to boxer shorts is carefully played, and from Bush, especially his physical comedy going from broad to small gestures. Smith's Izzy isn't shown as an airhead, she's really quite practical, although I acknowledge that hearing the word "nymphomaniac" in a contemporary play is a little surprising. Contini's Martin seems to fit the description of a slacker perfectly. He, too, grows throughout the play, almost exploding at one point, in an exchange with the fearsome Pierson, whose bombastic attitude is the pivotal point of the story, almost never cooling down into a reasonable mood.
Elizabeth Helman directed, keeping things moving well, almost choreographing on the small stage. Patrick Huber's set and lights charm, especially the set transition late in that second act.
Still, the question that's unanswerable is Do writers write to be read? Or do they write because they want, yea, need to create a world in their head?
Seminar
through October 4
St. Louis Actors' Studio
Gaslight Theater
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