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Review by Michael Bracken

 

Batten down the hatches. There’s a hurricane brewing at the Peter J. Sharp Theater at Playwrights Horizons, and it’s poised to blow you away.

Iowa, with book by Jenny Schwartz, music by Todd Almond, and lyrics by both, starts with a brief introductory ballad that longingly questions the distance to Mars. (Think Judy Garland with a really big rainbow.) Then we’re off to the races. We catch Sandy (Karyn Quackenbush) video conferencing in her suburban living room with her cyber-boyfriend, Roger, who lives in Iowa. She has just accepted his marriage proposal when in walks her daughter Becca (Jill Shackner), accompanied by her friend Amanda (Carolina Sanchez). Sandy tells Becca the news. And then some.

With a little assistance from Roger and Becca, Sandy pursues a nonstop talking jag about subjects as varied as her engagement ring, menopause, masturbation, Becca’s sexuality, Amanda’s many problems (ADD, bulimia, broken home, penchant for violence), Jesus (the janitor at work whom Sandy loves and who gave her herpes), living in a nursing home, and Muslims. She thinks Becca’s twelve when she’s fourteen, keeps calling her fiancé “what’s his name” and constantly confuses Iowa with Ohio. Non sequiturs abound. And it’s all done at the speed of light.

By the time Sandy finishes, you’re exhausted, although she shows no signs of fatigue. Her spoken aria borders on overkill, but it’s so funny you don’t mind. It’s hard not to laugh at the pinball logic that powers Sandy’s discourse. And Quackenbush’s delivery is impeccable. She doesn’t seem to even stop for air. Somewhere amid all the debris, she makes it clear to her daughter: they’re moving to Iowa.

Becca responds by calling her father (Lee Sellars), in London. She wants to live with him. Their exchange is not unlike Sandy’s quasi-monologue, although shorter and less frenetic. He misunderstands words, spouts useless information, and, like his ex-wife, thinks his fourteen-year-old is twelve. He’s receptive to Becca’s request until his fiancée tells him she’s pregnant. Then Becca’s back where she started: they only have one extra bedroom.

While Becca is dismayed at the notion of moving to Iowa, her best – and only – friend Amanda, is equally apprehensive. Becca is Amanda’s only friend too. Luckily, and somewhat implausibly (not that plausibility is even a remote concern in this crazy comedy), she latches onto a passing cheerleader. They get high. Their conversation has the same (well, almost the same) screwy continuity as the pronouncements of Becca’s parents. Amanda’s found a new friend.

Iowa’s score is not especially flashy, but the songs are uniformly solid. Some numbers are sendups and others more like rhythmic incantations that move the story along, but all have inanely intelligent lyrics to match the show’s daffy dialogue.

Arnulfo Maldonado’s witty costumes capture the sartorial essence of the show’s many (with actors playing multiple roles as needed)) outsize personalities. Quackenbush’s Sandy shines in a slithery cocktail dress and beams in a burqa. Dane Laffrey’s mostly minimal set is perfect for the myriad pit stops on the figurative road to the land of cornfields and caucuses.

If Schwartz, Almond, and director Ken Rus Schmoll are aiming at anarchy, they’ve hit the bull’s eye. And, if they’re aiming for laughs, they haven’t done so badly either. But not every narrative ploy pays off. A pony theme (from Sandy’s childhood) is tiresome until the pony breaks into song (“Ponies” – short, sweet, and slyly silly) and redeems himself. And occasionally Iowa loses its direction, but the detours tend to be short-lived.

Schwartz and Almond have a marvelous grasp of goofiness, and Schmoll masterfully executes their comic vision. Iowa even has its touching moments, as in a flashback to young Becca, reading by flashlight outside, with her concerned father coaxing her indoors. But mostly it’s just fun: a carnival of free association frivolity of the highest order

Through May 10 at Playwrights Horizons’ Peter Jay Sharp Theater (416 West 42nd Street). www.PHnyc.org.

1 hour 45 minutes.

*Photos: Joan Marcus