Hello, My Name Is Bad

Near the end of Hello, My Name Is…, a new play by Stephanie Rabinowitz, I was reminded of something Natalie Goldberg said about being careful who you ask to critique your writing. When a piece of writing is not good, she says, most people will still come up with suggestions and faint praise, “instead of just saying to that person, ‘This is just not happening. Go write something else.’” Judging by this particular play, which appears to have been produced mostly by people Ms. Rabinowitz has worked with before, she is sorely lacking someone who will speak about her writing with such honesty.

Set entirely during one meeting of a weekly group therapy session for sex addicts, Hello, My Name Is…, careens recklessly back and forth between comedy and drama, realism and fantasy, melodrama and farce, leaving the audience completely baffled on how to interpret the overwrought dialog. Uneven direction by Lee Douglass does little to remedy the problems of the script, and at several points directorial choices add to the confusion. Several of the performers, most notably Tracy Shar in the role of Faye Davenport, successfully pull moments of hilarity or insight from the wreckage of the script, but ultimately it isn’t anywhere near enough to make the production either amusing or meaningful. Near the end of the show’s ninety minutes, the gentleman in the seat behind me was groaning audibly at each of the four “plot twists,” as unbelievable as they are unexpected, that serve as the play’s “climax.” I have to say, I didn’t blame him.

I would think that both sex addiction and self-help groups would be rich subject matter that a skilled playwright could successfully weave into either comedic or dramatic gold. Unfortunately, Ms. Rabinowitz has not done so here, and Hello, My Name Is… delivers nothing but perplexity about how such a play ever came to be produced. (Lion Theater at Theater Row, 410 W. 42nd St. 212-714-2442. Through Jan. 28.)