Who is Sylvia?

Well, she's a goat. There are no spoilers there. Edward Albee's play is titled The Goat or Who is Sylvia? So I'll just lay that out. Sylvia is the goat. And Christopher Cantrell plays Martin, and Martin is the man, and the man is having sex with the goat.

And Stevie is his wife, and Ross is his friend, and Billy is his son, and they all find out he is having sex with a goat.

But that's the trick of it. Director Eric Mark says in his program notes, "I'm hopeful that you will ultimately agree that this show is not just about a man and a goat." And he's right. It's not about the man and the goat. It's about the man and his friend and his wife and their son. It is about the impact, rather than the action. The aftermath, rather than the deed.

It is easy to mistake The Goat for a comedy. Indeed, the opening scene is almost farcical. Throwaway comments from all the characters play into the secret that the audience shares with Martin, and the dramatic irony builds to a fever pitch.

Christian Carvajal's* Ross leaps deftly from awkward misunderstanding to boorish masculinity and back again as he circles in on the truth of his friend's new mistress, and the payoff of discovery that the audience has been waiting for does not disappoint.

From the first moment of the second scene, however, it is clear we are watching no comedy. The behavior we found so hilariously inappropriate takes a turn for the darkly personal. Martin's perpetually amusing confusion at the world peels back to reveal a quiet despair.

Cantrell's Martin is not angry, or evil, or even afraid, per se. Instead, he is desperate. Not frantic, but desperate to be understood, and resigned to the unlikelihood of his wish. In this, the actor achieves something that should be extraordinarily difficult: sympathetic bestiality.

The anger, fear and other ironically primal emotions are reserved for Stevie. Played by Pug Bujeaud, Theater Artists Olympia's artistic director, she morphs from Martin's cleverly understanding partner to a fiery ball of rage and grief. Her confusion is more pointed than his, her desperation sharper.

By the time the lights go down for the last time, any laughter is relegated to the relief of uneasy, awkward tension. In this, the production transcends comedy and drama and hits on something beyond apparent genres: real life.

Life is not a comedy, but it still spends an awful lot of time being hilarious. And life, as a general rule, is not a tragedy, but it still makes us cringe and weep, by turns.

The Goat is uncomfortable. Partly because of its subject, but largely because it manages to raise questions beyond "What is wrong with this guy?" Is it worse to have done something that others find reprehensible, or to care more about the opinions of others than your own beliefs? And more importantly: what makes it wrong? Not because the players wish to convince us that it is, but because it is important to have a better answer than "it just is".

It is a boon to the community that we have at least a few theater groups more interested in difficult questions than easy answers. And so it is appropriate that with the final curtain they ask one more: Who do you feel the most kinship with? Who is ultimately the victim?

Well, besides the goat.

*Full disclosure: Yes, the Christian Carvajal mentioned is the same guy that, along with Joe Izenman and Joann Varnell, regularly reviews theater for the Weekly Volcano. Sorry. He's in a play about a guy fucking a goat. We couldn't resist. Surely you understand.

The Goat, or, Who is Sylvia?

Theater Artists Olympia
Through Oct. 17, 7:30 p.m. Thursday-Sunday, $12
The Midnight Sun, 113 N. Columbia St., Olympia