How edgy does a play need to be in order to be effective? In the case of Neil Simon’s semi-autobiographical Brighton Beach Memoirs, not edgy at all.
This mild comedy recounts two evenings in the life of a big, loving, stereotypical Jewish family from the Brighton Beach neighborhood of Brooklyn. Fifteen-year-old Eugene, an aspiring baseball player (and aspiring writer, if the former doesn’t work out) is recording the details of life with his parents (played by Maria Selma and Michael Medford), maternal aunt (Kate Wachsman), older brother (Drigan Lee) and two cousins (Sophie Rich and Zoë Maltby), for what he gleefully dubs his “secret memoirs.”
The cast doesn’t act like a family; it is one. Each actor has their flaws – indeed, few stood out individually – but together, you can picture them in any nondescript suburb in America, arguing about overcooked liver and oatmeal cookies.
Eugene is the uncontested star of the show, hyperactively portrayed by Aaron Eisenberg (think teenage Woody Allen on Ritalin). He is constantly popping out of the woodwork to recap a plotline or announce a new scene: “Chapter Seven. The Infamous Dinner!” he declares.
It’s hard to tell whether his frenetic energy is a delightful contrast to or slightly at odds with the quiet realism of his family. In one scene, Eugene noisily pretends to choke on his dinner while his family, oblivious, continues to chew their food. If Eugene were less of a caricature, or if his family were more so, would this moment be as funny? Perhaps not. But then again, it may be more convincing.
The first act builds slowly, establishing each character and their individual problems that demand resolution: Stanley is in trouble at work, Nora is considering dropping out of high school and so on. If this seems a little conventional, it’s supposed to. These are the memoirs of a 15-year-old; they wouldn’t exactly be subtle.
The second act overcompensates by sending one character to a recruiting station, one into a heart attack and another into a car accident. This added dramatic weight drags down the mood and the pace, practically turning the second act into a parade of characters continually resolving their differences. At this point, as your attention wanders slightly, you may notice various neglected details, such as sloppy makeup, an occasional lack of projection and inconsistent Brooklyn accents.
But these small blunders are just that: small. Brighton Beach Memoirs is a testament to the fact that a show does not need to be big or complicated in order to be great. Sometimes a play is great if its most memorable scene – and this was very, very memorable – involves one brother explaining to the other what it means to dream about a girl and wake up with wet sheets.
This play is unapologetically simple and sticky sweet. If you can’t handle the love, stay home.
