Breed with Me

Breed with Me may be one of the worst titles in theater history, but the play itself is smart, if weird-ass, pulp fiction. In the American desert, aliens, ghosts and good/bad cops torment a photographer on the run from his past. It’s apt that Breed begins with a car crash: This play was made for rubbernecking. We challenge anyone to name another Cronenberg-esque horror play that tops an orgasming lizard queen, satisfactory Alien-style chest-buster makeup and ghost-erection jokes, all while playing it straight. Fisher’s play, which he first produced in 2003, should be the height of camp; instead, Breed can be genuinely unsettling.

Grounding the evening is Gorsky’s committed, near-certifiable turn as the femme fatale intent on “cuntilating” (think “inseminating”) the wayward shutterbug with her offspring. Moving like a film with every other frame cut out, Gorsky’s the embodiment of jerking creepiness. It’ll be a while before we forget her insistent “You’re a cowboy if I say you’re a cowboy.”

This economical nightmare doesn’t succeed completely. To differentiate between dialogue and thoughts—there’s a lot of mind reading—some actors wear large face mikes to signal inner monologues. Although Juan Castañeda’s shadowy light scheme tries to hide their moving lips during these internal moments, the effect feels artificial, breaking the tension. In its best moments, though, Breed is viscerally unpleasant and absorbing. You may want to shower afterward.

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