Whenever I visit The Ochre House I confess a sensation of exhilaration and dread, as if I were entering a sacred temple where the elemental truths of humanity might be revealed horrifically or congenially, pathetically or uproariously. Maybe both. Currently playwright and director Matthew Posey is offering The Egg Salesman, a gentle, saucy, comedic fable exploring the virtues of rich humanity over seeking validation by the world’s measure of success. Donald Trump may be wealthy beyond anyone’s most extravagant imaginings, but at the end of the day, nobody likes a putz.
Marvin, the hero of our saga, is still trying to find his way. Like the rest of us. He’s in love with Mary, and just the legendary duo of George Burns and Gracie Allen, Mary’s preposterous logic may keep Marvin on his toes (and inspire the occasional cringe) but the sweetness she brings to his restless heart is more than enough to keep him enchanted. Mary may follow what first appears to be the path of absurdity, but she may be onto more than Marvin realizes.
Marvin is a dedicated, avid egg salesman. He’s playing hooky from work, so he and Mary can enjoy a day at the dog-track, betting on the hounds. Unbeknownst to Mary, Marvin is deeply in debt to the tune of five figures, a predicament he hopes to resolve if he can just navigate the tip sheet resourcefully. Their friend, CJ is there too (bemoaning his tumultuous marital woes) and unfortunately, Marvin’s boss, Ken Looper, who thinks Marvin is at work, diligently documenting the poultry reports. Mr. Looper has brought his rambunctious wife, Katharine along, a zaftig and flirtatious gal who embodies the spirit of spontaneous, tactile recreation. Providing wisecracking narrative are Cigarette Girls : Bebe and Barbs.
Though it feels whimsical and off the cuff, The Egg Salesman is masterful in its vaudevillian timing and exquisite sense of the preposterous. The actors are having a picnic and we’re invited. Successful comedy is a delicate, chemical endeavor that makes nuclear physics seems like stirring up a box of Duncan Hines Brownies. We all want to laugh. The performers certainly want to engage us in that elusive, ebullient magic. But just like the redemption poor Marvin is seeking to pull his life from the pit of despair, humor has more to do with experience, intuition and skill, than conventional logic and loaded content. There’s something so blissful and sublime in this loopy, frantically subdued allegory, like a rowboat down the lazy river. You really, really, really should go. It’s splendelicious.