Temp Work

Forget apple pie and baseball: Nothing is as American as the interplay between religion and violence. And in the new 90-minute play The Break of Noon, playwright Neil LaBute and director Jo Bonney reveal an adeptness at exploring the interplay between the two.

The sole survivor of an office shooting, John Smith (David Duchovny) insists that God himself saved him. He saw a light, he heard God’s voice—and he alone was spared. Never mind that John was hardly a moral man, while many of his co-workers were fervent Christians. He insists that, for whatever reason, God chose him to live. Oh, and to spread His word.

So John does. But spreading the word of God requires a little capital, so he sells a cell phone picture he snapped of the office carnage while trying to escape the former-employee-turned-executor, for the cool sum of a million dollars. With that money—“Most of it went to charity,” he says primly to a TV interviewer, emphasizing charity and not the word “most”—John bumbles his way through being a better man, attempting to reconcile with his ex-wife (Amanda Peet) and trying to convince his ex-mistress (Peet again) to publicly reveal their affair.

But John hasn’t actually changed that much. His ex-wife accuses him of treating lies like oxygen, and so we’re never quite sure how much of what he claims to be true is actually true. His story of being saved by God subtly changes with each retelling, until he has God ordering him to help other sinners. Mostly, John still seems like a stubborn, selfish man, albeit one who learned to soften his voice when giving orders.

John’s attempt at beatification is never more unsettling than when he visits the daughter of one of his slaughtered co-workers. He doesn’t stop by her apartment; he calls up the escort agency where she works and requests her. Although I normally refrain from allowing an actor’s personal life from coloring how I view their performance, I have to admit that I was wildly distracted by the sight of Duchovny, a recovering sex addict, in the middle of a simulated fellatio scene with the prostitute.

Nowhere else does Duchovny seem like anything other than the character, though. His hangdog mien, which can suddenly transform into focused rage, is perfect for this LaBute man. He’s publicly sheepish about being the only survivor, but we sense that, within, he has accepted the sparing of his life as no more than his due.

Unlike reasons to be pretty, LaBute’s last outing, the entire cast glitters. Peet proves once again that, with the right material and director, she’s a natural on stage. Tracee Chimo, as both the extremely unlikely—but nevertheless entertaining—prostitute and a cheerfully vicious morning talk show host, continues her one-woman talent offensive, mowing down the competition to be considered one of the funniest, most versatile actresses working today. And John Earl Jelks pops up in two thankless roles—as a lawyer and a cop—that serve little more than expository needs.

The Break of Noon’s concept can often seem more invigorating than the actual play, which is a frustrating tease throughout. But even as we roll our eyes at LaBute’s vision of a hooker or the painfully cliché Jersey mistress, Duchovny’s aura of secrecy keeps us hooked. Is John the real deal, or just an elaborate phony? Even the play’s shocking final image refuses to divulge the answer. Regardless, this cast is the real deal.

The Break of Noon

Through Dec. 22, Lucille Lortel Theatre, 121 Christopher St. (betw. Bleecker & Hudson Sts.), 212-279-4200; $79.