Suicide may be painless, as the song has it, but assisted dying is painfully awkward in Neil LaBute’s play. It’s a wry but serious look at a hot-button topic, inspired by the recent death of his own mother (and possibly by the fact that this former enfant terrible of American theatre is himself now 62).
It’s also repetitive and reductive. The three characters spend half the time gingerly skirting the issues, the other half insisting they be spelled out in stultifying detail. A nuanced performance from Justina Kehinde brings heart and life to Lisa Spirling’s polished but airless production.
