Susan Hahn’s new play “Golf” is endearingly nutty. You can’t help but admire, sort of, a play which presents as a feminist victory Eva Braun’s decision to wear Coco Chanel’s new little black dress, even if it makes her boyfriend, ahem, Fuhrious, And it features an erotic encounter between man and mannequin that would shame even Andrew McCarthy. Now what does this have to do with golf? Good question. Apparently Hitler wasn’t the type of person who replaced his divots and took care of the golf course—at least, according to Chanel’s lover Arthur Capel. Or maybe Capel’s worldview is too genteel to understand a Hitler—which would explain why Capel keeps portentously breaking windows with his drives. “Golf” looks great; Bob Knuth’s design is sumptuously spare. Mierka Girten is bracingly authoritative as Gabby/Chanel. On the other hand, Gene Cordon’s He, who I’m pretty sure is supposed to be Hitler, seems mostly whiny and tired. Maybe this is intentional. If Coco Chanel can design clothes for Eva Braun, why can’t Hitler be whiny and tired? As you can probably tell, “Golf” left me deeply confused, like a jigsaw puzzle that also includes a couple of Superballs, a magnifying glass, and a dead rat. If it didn’t keep shouting, “There’s a dead rat in here somewhere, you know,” it might be some kind of brilliant. (John Beer)
This production is now closed.