Ed Harris sits all alone on the stage. The house is shabby, on its last legs, as is Dodge, the character Harris portrays. There’s rain outside the window. The room is staged with two small TVs, a bucket on the floor, hideous old wall paper and carpet. Dodge himself is none too gorgeous. He wears a baseball cap, gray T-shirt, checked shirt. Coughing, dozing, drinking whiskey from a hidden bottle, covered with a spread that has seen better days, Dodge is pretty much out of it. What’s amazing in this scenario is that Harris, doing practically nothing, is spellbinding. As an actor, he fills in every moment; it’s simply more interesting to watch Ed Harris just sitting on a couch than it is to see most actors attempt King Lear. As the evening progresses, our eyes rarely leave this most mesmerizing of thespians. His reactions, no matter how overt or subtle, are worth watching, no matter who else on stage is ranting, throwing things, or being completely outrageous. And there is plenty of all of that in Buried Child. Author Sam Shepard, though a bona fide critic’s darling, is an acquired taste. His work celebrates the dysfunctional family, the bleak reality, and the hopeless future. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1979, the current offering of the prestigious Signature Center debuted in New York in 1978; a Broadway revival was produced in 1996. The New Group has added another round of acumen with this production. It is intelligent, haunting, and superbly well-acted. The plot is puzzling but not complicated. Halie (Amy Madigan) calls down from upstairs, and rattles on. Her husband is not interested, but even as she descends the stairs, Halie rarely stops talking. She is off to see Father Dewis (Larry Pine), and recommends that Dodge call on their grown son, Tilden (Paul Sparks) if he needs anything. When Tilden enters, carrying a load of corn, it’s painfully obvious that he isn’t capable of helping anyone, including himself. He is, however, an expert at shucking corn, and husks are soon strewn across the floor. His brother Bradley (yes, it’s Rich Sommer from “Mad Men”) is deeply annoyed when he comes in, and attempts to clean up a bit. He’s hindered by having an artificial leg. When Vince (Nat Wolff), Tilden’s son, enters the picture, no one seems to recognize him. He’s brought his girlfriend, Shelly (Taissa Farmiga) along to join in the fun, but he soon abandons her. Director Scott Elliott keeps the tension going, even when the laughs intervene. Harris has impeccable timing, as do the rest of the players. The set, by Derek McLane, couldn’t be better, or uglier. Amy Madigan brings warmth to Halie, an almost impossible task, and she looks terrific in the outfits Susan Hilferty has provided. Especially fetching is the little black hat that Halie wears to carry on what we presume is an illicit affair. Taissa Farmiga has all the delicacy and spark of older sister Vera. Sommer, Sparks, and Wolff rage, weep, and exude an aura of both violence and helplessness. It’s hard to imagine a better cast for this play. Buried Child is ripe for after-the-show conversation. Many questions go unanswered, and red herring abound. Why doesn’t Shelly just leave? Why does she feel she belongs in this funhouse? Who is the father of the baby in the title? What was the real story about the death of the golden boy son? How and when did Dodge first list his various items to bequest? Why does Halie wear black to meet her supposed lover? How long does a body lie in the ground before it totally decomposes? At whom is Vince screaming outside? Why does Vince run so hot and cold on Shelly, and what does she see in him? At the end of the day, whether or not you revere Sam Shepard’s work, find the café in the beautiful Pershing Square Signature Center too crowded before every show, and appreciate the many stalls in the ladies’ room, one thing should be clear to everyone who loves theater. To have the opportunity to watch the great Ed Harris make it all seem so easy is an experience not to be missed.
