The black box Pinkerton is cleverly configured into three diagonals, two seating the audience. In the center, trees at the edge of a snow-filled forest with a bench in the snow mark one end of a path (half way graced by a fallen log). It leads to the porch of a cabin with sparse outdoor furnishings close to the front door.
Treading the path and interacting all at the same time on a wintry but starry Friday night in Almost, Maine will be sets of friends and lovers and a few who are almost either. As you might expect in a would-be town, there are a lot of mystical or magical goings-on. Most show how love or loss hit people.
Four versatile actors become 20 characters -- a really descriptive word for them. For instance, there’s the gal who totes her broken heart with her in a bag. Another carries all the love her boyfriend gave her back to him in sacks because, over time, he hasn’t proposed.
A guy who’s lost his parents and pet fish meets up with the girl he’s now lost to another man. What he may feel is even more shameful is getting a tattoo naming himself a “villian” (he’s a poor speller). Another guy has a congenital problem: He can’t feel pain. So what’s he gonna feel? Suppose a gal hits him with an ironing board? Or kisses him?
Each of the quirky sketches is somehow related yet detached, with a start and an end that come full circle. They seem to have found their perfect audience, as well as cast, crew, and director at Venice Theater. You may enjoy their whimsy or wish you’d eschewed all the treacly eccentricity. Just be aware that whether you see Almost, Maine after a noon meal or a dinner, you won’t need dessert.
