I knew that I would enjoy Killer Joe when I received the warning letter from Krannert. “This play contains violence, sexual themes, nudity, and graphic language,” it cautioned. Well! Anything that advises parental discretion, is something I’m sure to enjoy. And I figured that if I could get through Buried Child with no nightmares, this one shouldn’t be too disturbing. It doesn’t get much darker than dead babies buried under the corn, right?
Tracy Letts’ 1993 play is, indeed, dark. It’s stunning. It’s distressing. And it’s frightening. It’s all of these things because its stark depiction of the violent, hateful, selfish depths to which human beings so often—and so casually—sink is completely, depressingly realistic. It’s all of these things because there is no exaggeration or falseness in Letts’ portrayal of what ignorance, poverty, and loneliness will do to people, if given the right circumstances.
Killer Joe is about a morally bankrupt, dysfunctional Texas family: Ansel, Sharla, Chris, and Dottie Smith. Chris and Dottie are Ansel’s children from his first marriage. Sharla is Ansel’s second wife. We’re introduced to the Smith family the night that Chris turns to his parents and sister for help. Chris is a drug addict, whose addiction has landed him in debt with his dealer. Their solution? Pay a gun-for-hire to kill Ansel’s first wife, and collect on her insurance policy. The man they choose to commit the murder is Joe Cooper, a Dallas cop even more loathsome and corrupt than the Smiths.
Killer Joe has a fifth “character,” and that is the trailer in which the Smiths live, and where all of the action takes place. I, personally, have never seen a stage setting anything like this one. Before the play began, I whispered to my spouse that Ian James Anthony (Scenic Designer) deserved an award. He responded, “It’s a bit much.” And he was right, of course. The trailer is truly horrid: trash lines the walls; dirty dishes fill the sink; the furniture is stained, and duct tape covers tears; the kitchen cabinets are caked with grime, and every time Dottie or Sharla open them, they touch the dirt. When Dottie brews coffee in a filthy pot, then touches a grimy cabinet to get a dirty cup, and serves Joe, I actually lost my concentration (and a few lines) because I couldn’t get over the foulness of it all. How can Joe drink out of that cup? How can he eat anything cooked in that kitchen? I grew up in Shreveport, Louisiana, about three hours from Dallas, Texas. I know what that trailer is crawling with, and it isn’t just germs.
But I soon realized the set design wasn’t “a bit much,” but rather its own personality. I realized this when I finally resigned myself to the fact that attempting to avoid the horrid events happening in front of me by looking away was futile, because every time I tried, I found that I was peering into a reflection of the characters themselves. The filth of the characters is mirrored in their trailer. The despair of their existence is starkly revealed all around them. There is nowhere to look that has even an inkling of beauty. Nowhere.
A story as powerful and compelling as this requires actors who are up to the daunting task of telling it, and the entire cast of Killer Joe is superb. I’d seen (and enjoyed) all of the actors in previous plays, and they did not disappoint here. Anastasia Pappageorge, as Dottie Smith, stands out, simply because her character is so desperately heartbreaking, but all of the actors here — Pappageorge, Samuel Ashdown, Mike DiGirolamo, Nile Hawver, Monica Lopez — possess exceptional talent. The women’s roles are especially brave and compelling.
A few words of praise must be said for the direction, specifically Robin McFarquhar, the Fight Director. The choreography at the end of this play is so perfectly performed (and devastating) that I found it hard to let go and actually clap after the final scene.
One quibble: the announcer who asks that cell phones be turned off. She tries. She really does, bless her heart. But please, I beg you, if you’re going to attempt a Texas drawl, please, please get someone who can actually speak “hick.” Please. Otherwise you just sound like a cheap imitation of Kathy Bates.
Don’t miss this play if you can help it. Prepare yourself for an emotionally grueling story, one that will leave you drained, but that’s worth every second of sorrow.
Future Shows:
Wednesday–Saturday, February 17–20, 7:30 p.m.
Sunday, February 21, 3:00 p.m.