March 18, 2002. Michael Billington
They keep on coming. The fourth American import in as many days
turns out to be a wry social comedy by Kenneth Lonergan about the rich-kid, drop-out generation of the early 1980s. Acted
by a trio of burgeoning young movie-stars, it keeps one pleasurably entertained even if its concerns might seem a mite parochial
for the average British audience.
Lonergan looks back in languor, and with a certain rueful irony,
at the generation that emerged at the time of the Reagan presidency. The period is March 1982. And the setting is a one-room
apartment on New York's Upper West Side occupied by the drug-dealing, domineering Dennis. But the action stems from the arrival
of his chum, Warren, who comes bearing $15,000 he has stolen from his self-made father who has thrown him out of the house.
The wily Dennis spends part of the money on cocaine, aiming to get a brisk return on his borrowed capital: the more wimpish
Warren hopes that his new-found liquidity will help him entice fashion student Jessica into bed.
As a portrait of a generation of instinctive drifters, Lonergan's
play is often very funny. Dennis and Warren fall naturally into a bully-and-victim pattern that disguises a genuine friendship.
But the best scenes are those where Warren is left alone with the argumentative, irony-free Jessica. Their preliminary sexual
fencing has a wonderfully touching clumsiness. Even better is their morning-after spat when Jessica's post-coital anger and
Warren's bumbling helplessness kill any chance of a relationship.
In purely behavioural terms, the play is dead accurate, and Lonergan
is not slow to point out that these are all the kids of rich parents who themselves lead pretty messed-up lives. What Lonergan
leaves out, however, is the question of whether the Reagan ethos is partly responsible for all this moral confusion. We learn
that Dennis's social-worker mother is full of raging impotence at the new economics. But the fame of Dennis's painter-father,
and the brutishness of Warren's, seem unconnected to the zeitgeist; and, likeable as the play is, it fails to go the final
mile in indissolubly linking private and public lives.
As a result, the focus in Laurence Boswell's production is very
much on the performances. Hayden Christensen, looking like a taller Martin Amis, exhibits a fine rangy sulkiness as Dennis.
Jake Gyllenhaal as Warren is naturally comic and engagingly defenceless. And Anna Paquin as Jessica combines prim formality
of speech with an argumentative sexual ardour. All three are highly talented, instantly beguiling young actors even if Lonergan's
study of subsidised social rebels leaves you wanting more.