FRANKIE AND JOHNNY IN THE CLAIR DE LUNE
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
If you’ve seen Murray Schisgal’s The Tiger or William Mastrosimone’s The Woolgatherer or John Patrick Shanley’s Danny and the Deep Blue Sea, then you’ve seen a misfit romance. They’re intimate little two-character dramas (great for audition pieces or showcase productions) in which a couple of borderline sociopaths with heavy emotional scar tissue alternately harass and cling to one another–hissing and spitting and confessing all their deepest, darkest, most expository secrets–until that inevitable moment when they rediscover a forgotten vulnerability and fall in love. The setting is usually a cramped big-city rat hole of an apartment; the tone is ditzy-sad; the secret is a soft heart wrapped in tough talk.
The edgy lovers in McNally’s play are a disillusioned would-be actress and a lonely drifter. Frankie and Johnny meet at work; she’s a waitress and he’s the new short-order cook. They have a bad date and good sex, and when it’s over Frankie’s ready for Johnny to say thank you and go home. He won’t, though. He wheedles and bullies and tries to filibuster his way into her heart, demanding an intimacy she’s absolutely unwilling to supply.
