CATHARSIS
The problem with psychotherapy-as-theater is that the dramatic ingredients are too easy to assemble; the formula almost writes itself. In this one-sided, inevitably conflict-ridden relationship, one character is assumed to have all the answers (though all he does is ask questions), while the other holds back secrets that, once exposed, will supposedly produce an instant breakthrough-climax. The characters’ conflicts erupt out of the basic inequality of therapy itself; the remedy, of course, is for the supposed expert to confess his or her inadequacy (if only to balance the patient’s confessions), and the patient to see he’s not alone. Push-button purgation.
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Freud never guessed how theatrical the Freudian session would prove: the repression-confession situation is like catnip to playwrights eager to set up problems they haven’t bothered to dramatize. They don’t call it analysis for nothing, and playwrights should bear that in mind.
Naturally enough, Gabriel is both repelled by and drawn to Bible illustrations of Abraham about to sacrifice his son Isaac. And Gabriel finds the sacrificial victim, stretched out nearly naked on the altar, strangely desirable. Significantly, Gabriel is named after an angel, as was his brother. The brother died in a drunk-driving accident, Gabriel’s mother killed herself a year later, and now Gabriel sees God as “cruel and insecure,” just one more authority figure to resist.
Megan Warner’s staging accentuates the script’s general inertia. The awkward blocking (too many evenly spaced face-offs) and ceremonial pace just underline the contrived impasses and familiar characters. Only the acting defeats the labels. Andy Cook initially plays Gabriel too casually for the severe problems he is supposed to have, but he blows up well enough in the genuinely cathartic climax. John Franklin plays the shrink with palpable sincerity, and when he loses his professional cool, he does it with white-hot heat.
