There's a moose in the guest bedroom in Michael McKeever's new comedy, 37 Postcards. The animal never makes an appearance on stage (a taxidermist crossed its path long before the play begins), but it does take part in the events that transpire when Avery Sutton, a young man newly returned from a six-year sojourn in Europe, brings his fiancee Gillian home to meet his family in Wasp-haven Darien, Connecticut.
Although we never see the moose, we do learn that his glass eyes, staring straight at the bed, keep Gillian (Leila Piedrafita) from sleeping one night. Gillian insists it's the moose that's keeping her awake, but more likely she can't rest because it's dawning on her that she's about to marry into a clan of lunatics.
By the time she retires to the guest bedroom shortly after her arrival, Gillian has been insulted by Avery's grandmother; been asked to pronounce the word fellatio by Avery's aunt, a phone-sex entrepreneur; and, thanks to Avery's daffy mother, has been repeatedly mistaken for the maid. That's just in the first act.
Although it's not entirely lighthearted, 37 Postcards is a comedy about -- you guessed it -- a so-called dysfunctional family populated with dotty characters, in this case including not only Avery's maternal relatives but also his father Stanford, an apparently daft and absent-minded blue blood who likes to play impromptu games of golf in the middle of the night.
Did I mention that Avery has a grandmother? For the better part of Act One, this topic is up for debate. Although his mother wrote him that Nana passed away while he was gone, Avery encounters his grandmother (Ellen Davis) soon after he first walks in the door. "Who the hell are you?" she asks him.
Nana may be a bit "wonky," as Aunt Ester puts it, but Avery is dumbfounded. Ester (Kimberly Daniel) explains that, although Avery's parents think they attended Nana's funeral, she's actually living in a small room off the kitchen. "Maybe they're more eccentric than I remembered," he admits to Gillian. Avery also remembers that when he left for Europe six years earlier, the Sutton house was not literally sinking into the ground. "It's 'settling,'" explains his mother, though Avery takes the sinking to heart. He knows it's an outward emblem of the family's inward turmoil. For example, Avery's mother keeps insisting he sent her postcards -- 37 of them -- while he was away, though he knows he sent none.
Michael McKeever, who lives in Davie, wrote 37 Postcards for New Theatre's New Plays Project, which commissions works by Florida playwrights and is funded in part by the theater's recent grant from the National Endowment For the Arts. (Hey, Jesse Helms, can you say fellatio?) Another recent McKeever work, the extraordinary The Garden of Hannah List, played at the Florida Stage earlier this year. In addition to writing plays, McKeever -- who in local theater circles is often described as the Most Talented Person Ever to Set Foot in South Florida -- is a graphic artist, whose posters include works for Radio City Music Hall, the Miami International Film Festival, and Good Morning America. He's also an actor and in fact stars in 37 Postcards as Avery.
Despite McKeever's golden touch, Postcards doesn't have enough personality to stand out from the dozens of other works it resembles. While the Suttons may be more eccentric than Avery remembers, the rest of us encounter folks like them everywhere we turn. In fact, it's impossible to sit through 37 Postcards without thinking of a half-dozen classic comedies (Bringing Up Baby, Holiday, et al.) about people dragging friends home to meet their oddball relatives.
Of course, the appeal of idiosyncratic families as a subject for tragedy or comedy is that we all have a metaphorical moose in the guest bedroom. (In my family we have a stuffed swordfish.) And, from time to time, all of us feel like the human offspring of aliens. Eccentric relatives -- from Eugene O'Neill's Tyrones in Long Day's Journey Into Night to TV's The Addams Family -- have populated theater stages, movie and TV screens, and the pages of novels for so long they've become cliched. One family's Aunt Ester with a phone-sex business is another family's Uncle Fester sleeping on a bed of nails.
The play, however, does have its charms. Indeed the ghost of Moss Hart -- whose 1936 Pulitzer Prize-winning comedy You Can't Take It With You set the standard for zany families in American plays -- hovers over 37 Postcards like a kindly guardian angel. (The exploding toilet that plagues the Suttons is a singularly Hartian device.) While the play is nicely constructed and perfectly enjoyable (and chock full of jokes about Nana slapping neighbor Martha Stewart), its depiction of Wasps as a well-dressed but emotionally restrained tribe isn't especially fresh. As a budding McKeever fan, I found Postcards disappointing, coming as it does so soon after The Garden of Hannah List, which made the terrors of the Holocaust seem new.
Like many domestic comedies, the story of the Suttons has a darker side, and McKeever's strongest asset here is his ability to occasionally insert hints of grief and loss into the play's lighter elements. Unfortunately the audience catches on to the source of the Suttons' grief long before the characters do. Could Avery's parents think Nana is dead because, in fact, that would be easier to digest than the death of another family member? Anyone attuned to the playwright's sensibility will easily guess the fate of Avery's missing twin brother and the role he plays in the family's collective state of mind.