Mr. Dudley, an American playwright, wants us to be nonplussed and amused by the blithe manner in which these kids discuss the grim tricks of their trade, but he overdoes the devil-may-care attitudinizing. These penniless hustlers comport themselves with a perky enthusiasm that recalls the young-adult television comedy "Saved by the Bell," at least until the play darkens, inevitably, in the second act.
By this point Dave has made his way to London, where he lives in a seedy flat underneath a nightclub. He rhapsodizes about his cozy new home, his high-class clientele and his budding porn career in a manner that is meant to strike a poignant, pathetic note. But Mr. Dudley's writing strains so obviously for its effects that few will be moved when Dave, now reunited with Fran, descends into a maelstrom of drugs and kink. (He's led to ruin by the play's most ludicrous character, a French photographer played by Maggie Moore, with an accent that's a howler even in this circus of phonetic oddities.)
Mr. Dudley, meanwhile, descends into his own maelstrom of grungy lyricism, as Fran is awakened to the bitter truth about their poisoned lives and mournfully says, "Just once I want to be loved the way I need to be loved and not go through life like a knife through water." If only the play, slackly directed by Michael Morris, moved with a commensurate speed. That's assuming, of course, that aimless velocity is what Mr. Dudley's hazy image is intended to convey.


Quelle: http://theater2.nytimes.com/2005/04/14/theater/reviews/14slag.html?ex=1154404800&en=a4b25fe3d3370b18&ei=5070

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