Alaska’s characters have issues. They lash out against themselves and each other in chaotic attempts to communicate. An ignored lover lifts her skirt for attention, a man screws anything that moves in a desperate hope of connection, another substitutes sex for love, and another struggles with himself to be closer to who he really is. These struggles are all nonverbal, and are played out masterfully against Ulises Conti’s excellent live score on a bleak, sterile stage. All of this succeeds terrifically, even against the telenovela plot, for when, after we have been watching these failures to communicate, and are offered a chance to do so ourselves, we fail just as tragically.
by Abe Ingle