Vance Packard first blew the whistle on Madison Avenue in 1957, so it should come as no surprise in 2018 to hear that advertisers are out to manipulate us into spending money on their products. Sheila Callaghan, however, also sees our cultural values reflected in this seemingly benign capitalistic propaganda—specifically, the proliferation of images depicting the solitary bliss of attractive young women smiling open-mouthed as they cheerfully fork fresh green plant fiber past teeth unmarked by chlorophyll stains. The framing device she chooses for her dissertation thereupon is, ironically, the progress of a clueless privileged white male. After a childhood marred by filial unrest and betrayal, Guy (that's his name) is now an aspiring writer encumbered by his fashionably anorectic mate and his secret lust for plus-sized exotics. He meets his earth goddess at a dance club one night and, after sneering at her romantic fantasy of jazz-age Paris, invites her to a three-way with his would-be California Girl consort. Meanwhile, Guy's mom struggles with "descending womb"—an arcane gynecological condition rendered literally in Callaghan's dramatic universe—and undergoes manicures involving flesh-eating fish. What all these women have in common is that they eat salad, even as they dream of the hearty cuisine forbidden them. The thinking behind this contradiction is explained in a later scene depicting a conference room of executives pitching their new ad campaign to a female boss. If our play hadn't been written by a woman of unimpeachable feminist persuasion, its 1960s-vintage gender politics might have eclipsed its alleged female-empowerment manifesto. Devon de Mayo's direction, however, forestalls disruptive ambiguity by keeping the stage picture brightly lit and constantly mobile with provocative Ionesco-absurdist spectacle—the "Dance of the Seven Lettuces," for example, or slapstick-acrobatic sim-sex (courtesy of fight/intimacy designer Rachel Flescher), or Jennifer Engstrom's uncanny drag-turn resemblance to Hawaii Five-0's Jack Lord. You might leave the theater bewildered by what you have just witnessed, but after viewing an opening scene composed entirely of Callaghan's three graces munching on you-know-what, you will have plenty to contemplate while navigating the produce aisle.
