CRITIC’S BITE

A gripping solo performance
anchors this haunting tale

Kevin Webb

I had not encountered arithmomania in any form of entertainment media in well over two decades. Now it’s popped up twice in a few weeks on two different Chicago stages: in Kevin Douglas’ hilarious Untitled Vampire Play at Lookingglass, and now in Black Button Eyes‘ sharp new revival of Conor McPherson’s St. Nicholas. Make of that what you will.

The City Lit Theater is naturally suited to tales of the supernatural. Set on the second floor of the Edgewater Presbyterian Church, you push past enormous heavy oak doors to enter, climb up an over-hundred-year-old wooden staircase and walk down an empty, echoing hallway to get to its door. No natural light penetrates and, regardless of the weather outside, it’s always cool and slightly damp, with a hint of petrichor and age in the air. And then you step into the black box of the theater, where tonight, the boldest color on stage is a blood-red set of curtains in the back. An enormous attic window frame that evokes a pentacle hangs over the space. On a wooden floor are arranged a comfortable leather armchair and some accent tables, one of which is laden with bottles of Glenfiddich and cut glasses, the other with leather-bound books. A small desk sits at one end. One would assume this is an older gentleman’s study. But then one notices that every piece of furniture is contained within a large circle of rice on the floor.

Kevin Webb

Director Ed Rutherford gives us a few moments to fully take in Jeremiah Barr‘s lovely set before a door somewhere slams open and shut and a harried man storms in, neatly stepping over the rice, into the safety of the circle. The man—his name is never revealed to us—is a middle-aged theatre critic from Dublin and, for the first time in his life as a writer, has a story of his own to tell. A story of obsession, lust, and vampires.

It’s hard not to assume that McPherson had a very specific theatre critic in mind when he penned this play early in his career. The Critic—I shall refer to him thusly for the rest of the review—is a venomous, spiteful man, taking great pleasure in destroying plays and careers. A journalist of high stature at his paper, he boasts of having his reviews mostly written before seeing the play: “I had never taken the time to form an opinion. I just had them.” But the Critic is also a failed writer, incapable of creating anything good of his own and burning with jealousy and resentment toward those who can.

Kevin Webb

The opening stretch of St. Nicholas focuses mostly on the Critic’s arrogance and self-loathing. Having tacitly come to terms with his mediocrity as a writer, he lives a life of drunken misery that contaminates every person in his orbit, including his wife and two children. Then one evening, while reviewing a so-so production of a play—from context it seems to be Wilde’s Salome—the Critic falls head over heels in obsession with a young actress and plunges into one hell of a midlife crisis, which eventually leads him to heartbreak and delivers his broken soul into the hands of a vampire named William.

A one-character play that runs almost two hours might seem like a bit much, but fortunately for us, the Critic is played by Chicago theatre stalwart Kevin Webb. Webb gives a phenomenal, beautifully controlled performance of a bitter, angry man whose contempt for the world is exceeded only by his contempt for himself. He’s far too young for the part, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s a gripping turn, and I was thoroughly absorbed.

Kevin Webb

Director Rutherford is a frequent collaborator with Webb and knows when to stay out of his actor’s way. His direction is unobtrusive but assured and makes excellent use of Joe Griffin‘s sound design, which supplies a low thrum of effects, providing crowd and pub noises for the more raucous parts of the story. Similarly, Liz Cooper‘s lighting design shifts and modulates ever so slightly depending on where the Critic is in his story, never drawing attention to itself at any moment. It’s all beautifully crafted.

Kevin Webb

Even in this early work one can see McPherson’s gift for storytelling and language. The monologue is packed with exquisite turns of phrase and keen observations. Sure, the central thesis that critics are the real-life equivalents of vampires is a bit obvious and juvenile—seriously, this has to be inspired by a real person, no?—but the narrative is gripping and the writing is mostly gorgeous. St. Nicholas can be split into two distinct portions: the self-loathing rant and the dalliance with the vampires. The self-loathing portion is funnier, sharper, and more venomous, but I found Act II far more interesting for what it has to say about human nature, desire, and not just art, but the appreciation of art. The Critic’s contempt for humanity spills over onto un-humanity when he realizes that William is incapable of genuinely appreciating, or even understanding, art. His sophistication is a pose. And in Webb’s outrage at this revelation, we get a glimpse of who the Critic once was: a long time ago, before cynicism, failure, and the vicissitudes of life broke him down even as he rose to the top of his profession.

Kevin Webb

It is at this moment that the Critic realizes that there’s something of value left in him. Whether the realization has come too late for his soul is another matter.

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photos by Michael Brosilow

St. Nicholas
Black Button Eyes Productions
City Lit Theater, 1020 W. Bryn Mawr Ave. in Chicago
Thu–Sat 7:30; Sun 3:00; Mon at 7:30 (July 13); Sat at 3 (July 18)
ends on July 26, 2026
for tickets ($30), visit Black Button Eyes Productions

for more shows, visit Theatre in Chicago

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