In studies of post-WWII European dramatists, scholars tend to prefer the more accessible satires of Friedrich Durrenmatt to those of Max Frisch -- or could it be that the protagonist of The Firebugs is a humble citizen, disturbingly similar to ourselves? Certainly, Gottlieb Biedermann (whose name translates "God-Love Everyman") is not a monster: his transgressions are petty, his intentions benevolent, his concerns private -- all adding up to a vision so myopic as to make him a perfect pigeon for the arsonists to whom he extends his hospitality. (Lest we smirk at his gullibility, he asks us, "What would you have done? And at what point?") Written in episodic form, accompanied by a Greek chorus of fire-fighters lamenting their own helplessness, this 1958 play commonly runs two hours or more in most contemporary productions, but this stripped-down staging by the uniformly-young troupe calling itself The Hypocrites clocks in at a breathless fifty minutes.
Under the direction of Sean Graney, the dialogue gallops along at Mamet-swift speed, with characters frequently talking over one another, and firemen dashing onstage to deliver their strophes with drill-formation precision. All this could easily degenerate into Monty-Python silliness, but the Hypocrite cast, led by Don Bender as the befuddled bourgeois Biedermann, retain a firm grip on the action, never losing sight of the playwright's caveat to those who would deny their complicity in crimes of mass destruction.
