Casanova

Given Greig's premise—the joyous, dangerous disruptiveness of sex—it's mighty odd just how undangerous his 2001 play is. With a modern-day Casanova, history's most prolific fornicator, who loves sex because it feels good, Greig seems to be saying, in schoolboy fashion, Isn't promiscuity terribly naughty? But in post–Carrie Bradshaw America, it's hard to take seriously Greig's implicit straw man of a sex-shy audience.

A curator arranges an exhibition to showcase Casanova's conquests, with a display case for each of his thousand women. Of course, we know from the get-go that the curator's prim assistant, who escorts Casanova as he trawls for the final perfect woman, will hook up with him. A thumping, Viagra-jacked production might make up for the clumsy writing; instead, Senior gives us an uninspired one that seems curiously not in the mood. Greig's sophomoric ideas aren't helped by plodding pacing. And while Casanova may be past his prime, Neumann doesn't give off even a whiff of pheromone. Yet as the curator and her assistant, Carolyn Hoerdemann and Kathy Logelin, respectively, capture their characters' quirkiness.

Casanova is pathetic because he doesn't know real love; we're petty because we judge him. Greig wants to have it both ways not to address the subject's complexity, but to cover his bases. It's exceedingly clear that Casanova is a walking metaphor for the messy unpredictability of desire, but there isn't anything unpredictable in this schematic work. More than anything, Casanova is weirdly asexual.—Novid Parsi