Family Week

Is there a sadder little play than Family Week by Beth Henley? I'm not sure there is. Here is a 75 minute play--75 minutes. I checked my watch at 45. I sat in A111, so I was in the first seat, first row, on the aisle--no true chance to contemplate leaving. And at the Lucille Lortel--I love that theater. And so many recent good memories.

The play follows family week at The Pastures rehabilitation center, set in a town of dude ranches (was Ms. Henley making sure we couldn't miss that she was referring to an actual family week, maybe, I don't know--at The Meadows, the actual rehabilitation center in the cowboy town of Wickenburg, Az.?). Even now that I've seen the whole play, I can't quite figure whether I was meant to see the rehab process as a giant joke, or whether it is meant to be a tender thing. That is sort of incredible, given that this is the stage directorial debut of Jonathan Demme. And I don't even know where to begin about the cast. I mean we're talking Kathleen Chalfant and Rosemarie deWitt. I love Ms. Chalfant. And who wouldn't, remembering her chilling performances (i.e. Wit). But more, I think Rosemarie deWitt is a thrillingly nuanced actress (and, to be fair, she is the best and most nuanced thing in the play) and thought she actually upstaged Anne Hathaway in Rachel's Getting Married, and gives an amazing turn in The United States of Tara. My question comes down to this--did a communal sort of fugue state descend on the creative team here? What are they all doing in this clunker? It's a shonda.