We all know, at least theoretically, not to judge books by their covers, and the same goes for a play’s set. Still, that first impression when you walk into a theater contains information. The event of the play has already begun, and whatever the space is giving you is a part of it.
Thus my trepidation upon entering the capacious Newman Mills Theater at MCC for Robert O’Hara’s Shit. Meet. Fan.
Clint Ramos’s set fits the minimalist-modern venue almost too well: It’s a luxury condo, sprawling decadently across the room, all glass and tasteful neutrals and massive, characterless abstract paintings. A huge backlit bar, a swanky kitchen not really intended for cooking, and an upper level with a balcony are all backed by a glittering view of Fidi through the windows (that’s that DUMBO money). Sure, your gut might be wrong, but what your gut has to say is: Nothing good can happen in a space like this.
And nothing does. Neither in terms of the story O’Hara’s telling nor of the play that’s telling it. Shit.
Meet. Fan. is a thin, nasty affair, a smug exhibition of human selfishness, vapidity, and cruelty — especially, and unshockingly, the straight-white-male variety.
(White women next, by a hair.) “This play is a blistering vulgar satire on Male Toxicity and White Privilege,” writes O’Hara in a script note labeled “Trigger Warning.” “Allow the laughter to indict the audience and lure them into a sense of comfort.
Then let the Shit. Meet. Fan.
” Vulgar .