Theater review: Betrayal at McKinney Avenue Contemporary in Dallas

by Christopher Soden of Christopher Soden, Dallas GLBT Arts Examiner

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The genius of Pinter, so splendid with his distilled, dry, insinuative repartee, is the profuse information we get when so very little is spelled out.

For all his concision and enigma, for all his meticulous diction and poetry of the unspoken, Harold Pinter has a great deal of insight into the human condition. He understands that those who live together often evolve a very clipped, minimal way of speaking to one another. They come to comprehend each other so well, inference becomes second nature, and meaning becomes less obvious to outsiders. Pinter opens the traditional fourth wall, but without the luxury of characters who speak to one another in complete sentences. By making conversation less accessible to the audience, we are forced to focus more intently on the dialogue, and feel more like interlopers. Ironically, the less privy we are to the content of the words, the more avidly we participate. Pinter involves us more thoroughly by creating more hurdles.

One might assume Betrayal (presented by Kitchen Dog Theater at the McKinney Avenue Contemporary through October 9) is less difficult than other Pinter plays, such as The Homecoming, The Collection, and The Birthday Party, since the nature of the relationships in those works are much less apparent. And it’s a fair assumption. Betrayal tracks the dissolution of the marriage between Emma (Leah Spillman) and Robert when Jerry (Robert’s best friend) seduces and subsequently has an affair with Emma. Simple, nearly mundane details are elevated to urgent metaphor and revelation. What begins as a stupid, drunken pass, which Emma ignores, is amplified when Robert unwittingly interrupts. Pinter provides both Jerry (Max Hartman) and Emma with a reprieve, both are reminded of what they are doing and the casualties implied. Thus, when Robert (Cameron Cobb) departs, in a state of sublime cluelessness, the crime seems so much worse. And of course, only Pinter could get away with a line like, “I wanted to blacken you in your white wedding gown.” Up until then we can possibly dismiss Jerry's actions as biological imperative. Even Emma recognizes the hyperbole and reminds Jerry (supposedly intent on wickedness) that the gown wasn’t nearly as pure as he’d like to imagine.

This aspect of the human condition, seeing what we want to see instead of what we ought, is a substantial component of Betrayal. That and the distortion of memory, and a willingness to twist the truth to our own ends, all of this emerges from the reversed narrative line of Betrayal. It’s commonly known that it begins two years after Jerry and Emma’s affair has ended, and ends with the previously mentioned fall from grace. Come to think of it, we never really see the affair consummated, beyond a few kisses.

Betrayal is circumspect in the way it carefully details accoutrements, the steps before and after, the discovery and the death-knell, but the urgent attraction at the core feels like an afterthought. The scenes cluster around an idea, sometimes hop-scotching sideways, then backwards, but never forward. Jerry remembers tossing Emma’s daughter in the air, but believes it was in his kitchen. Emma tells Jerry she’s confessed their affair only recently, but the motives for this lie are unclear. The distinction between deceit and mistake is muddled. Each character seems sabotaged by their conflicting agenda.

The genius of Pinter, so splendid with his distilled, dry, insinuative repartee, is the profuse information we get when so very little is spelled out. The damage and excruciation felt by all involved is so unmistakable, and yet clues come from discussions of new authors, a tablecloth, a bicycle accident, a promise to play squash. When Robert bitterly observes that he should have had the affair with Jerry, it’s not about homoeroticism, or even romance. His profound devotion to Jerry has been mocked. The best man at his wedding has violated his trust. It’s as if Pinter has created the affair to expose Robert’s depth of feeling in a way otherwise unavailable to heterosexual men, while also revealing Jerry’s speciousness. Emma, conceivably the least culpable, is nearly parenthetical.

I greatly appreciated Director Tina Parker’s treatment of the text. Timed less for wit than precision, the dialogue felt determined and genuine, with an excellent pace for rumination. The exchanges don’t bounce so much as they drum. Or seethe. Cobb has an aching frailty that peeks out through the academic, nonchalant demeanor. Hartman’s Jerry has a vacuousness behind the bravado that serves him well in the role. Spillman has a way of expressing vague concealment that complicates and enriches the part of Emma. Parker's navigation of this demanding material is poised, intelligent, and authoritative.

I have to give extra ink to Bryan Wofford’s set. In addition to the chairs, bed, table, there is a brilliant, three-dimensional montage, a manifestation of the whirlwind of memory and perception. Shaped like a cyclone and comprised of objects large and small (books, shelves, records, bottles, windows...) all the ingredients are painted with the same colors, in much the same way recollection molds everything to its overwhelming and intense perception of how things were and are.

This review previously appeared on Examiner.com.

Christopher Soden is a theater critic who also writes for content partner The Column.

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