Playwright: Bruce Norris
At: Steppenwolf Studio Theatre,
1650 N. Halsted
Phone: (312) 335-1650; $18-$28
Runs through: July 13
Last summer, Steppenwolf mainstage staged Bruce Norris’ Purple Heart, with Laurie Metcalf in the lead. This summer,
Steppenwolf’s studio theatre gives a world premiere to the playwright’s latest work, under the flawless direction of ensemble member
Amy Morton. We All Went Down to Amsterdam, on the surface, seems to be a very different work from Purple Heart, which was set in
the 1970s and concerned itself with a horrific revelation. But, upon closer inspection, We All Went Down to Amsterdam has many of
the same earmarks as its predecessor. Both plays are darkly funny (the humor often teeters on the edge of pitch black, shining an
unforgiving light on the basest of human emotion and motivation), both set themselves in fairly mundane situations (Purple Heart a
single-mother family and Amsterdam in a drab nursing home activity room), and both boast an innocuous character who enters this
setting unexpectedly and who harbors malicious, chilling intent.
The difference between the two plays is that Purple Heart was a bit easier to read; its themes and focus clearly delineated, even
though you may want to look away. The plotting was surer, and the build up more conventional. We All Went Down to Amsterdam,
with its themes of wanting to be heard and the search for human connection, is less easy to pin down. You may find yourself
wondering what you’re supposed to feel at the end of its short, yet powerful, playing time. The odd thing though is that, even if you find
the intentions behind Amsterdam murky, you can still enjoy the show. It boasts peerless performances from a hugely accomplished
cast. You will laugh, and be caught off guard when its most chilling moments creep up unexpectedly, but logically.
In brief, We All Went Down to Amsterdam concerns itself with three employees of a nursing home: an aide (Stephanie Childers), a
doctor (William Dick), and a janitor (K. Todd Freeman in a perfectly modulated performance). Two strangers have upset the boredom
of the home: an older man, Wood (Jim Mohr, who is so real you expect to see him in his wheelchair outside the theater, telling
confused, corny jokes in a hale and hearty voice) whose origins are unclear and another stranger, whom no one quite seems to
understand what his arrival portends. Tom Irwin plays the stranger with a kind of affable dumbness that belies the darkness lurking
beneath his bland exterior. By play’s end, all of these characters have revealed themselves to us, if not to each other.
This is one of those plays that is so rich in metaphor and depth that it bears a second viewing. One, to figure out just what the hell
is going on beneath the surface. And two, to savor the rich performances of actors at the top of their game.