If there is one thing Reza does well (and she does many things well when it comes to playwriting) is she cuts right to the chase without it feeling cheap, melodramatic, or false.  The question I constantly ask myself with this play is, “How does the playwright get us from A to Z so quickly?”  How do we go from “Those tulips are gorgeous” to “Children consume and fracture our lives.  Children drag us towards disaster, it’s unavoidable.”  I think the answer is simple.  ”What did you mean by that?”  That question, asked by one character to another, cuts right to the heart of whatever matter is at hand; whatever dialogue is being inferred but sublimated.  ”What did you mean by that?” doesn’t let the questioned character get away with passive/aggressive or flippant remarks.  Moreover, their response often merits a “What’s that supposed to mean?!”  In other words, some playwrights reveal a character’s truth very slowly, like undressing someone in fifteen layers of winter coats.  Reza, on the other hand, allows her character to flay one another like at a cat-skinning party.  For her, “What did you mean by that?” really states “I know exactly what you meant by that and I won’t pretend I don’t.”  For example, this exchange: “Gingerbread, delicious . . . Well, at least all this has given us a new recipe.” “I’d have preferred it if it hadn’t cost my son two teeth.”  ”Of course, that’s what I meant.”  ”Strange way of expressing it.”  It’s all quite civilized, and fairly simple.  She won’t let her characters off the hook they’re hanging themselves on.  Why?  ”You’re far more authentic when you’re showing yourself in a horrible light.”  Audiences want to see characters squirm in this horrible light because, like them, we more often than not know exactly what we mean when we say it.  We just hope the other person doesn’t make us prove it.

“Tartuffe must be approved, or all plays condemned.”  So wrote Moliere after years of the King denying production for fear of religious, political, and cultural backlash.  Why?  Because if drama is a mirror, the image being reflected was hypocritical, corrupt, and too close for courtly comfort.  But this play is about more than religious attack.  It is about reflection.  Each character is a mirror of a particular type.  The shrewish mother in law.  The cuckolded husband.  The adulterous wife.  The saucy maid.  The young lovers.  The hypocrite.  Yet each has a self-awareness that their identity depends upon the identities of others.  Each knows they are playing a part.  Each knows the part the other must play.  And each must play their role even if they wish to play against their type.  The only way Elmire can prove Tartuffe’s hypocrisy is to play the role of adulterous wife.  The only way Mariane and Valere can earn permission to marry is to play the role of quarrelsome lovers.  The rules of comedy call for it.  Moliere, however, has his cake and eats it too.  On the one hand, this is a brilliantly constructed comedy, adhering to the rules at every predictable turn.  On the other hand, it is a savage retaliation, not only on the religious group protesting the content of the play, but on the King himself for being so swayed.  In order for a mirror to reflect, it needs the light of the sun.  And in order for these characters’ identities to reflect the truth (however unseemly), they need the light of the Sun King.  All light emanates from him, and all identity depends upon it.  If, however, he is swayed, then all identity shifts throughout the court.  So in the end, what appears to be a lengthy and self-aware ode to the King’s power to force a happy ending is also a warning.  Moliere will not hesitate to turn the mirror on the King himself.  But playwright beware.   As Moliere writes himself, ”We easily endure reprimands, but not being laughed at.  We want to be wicked, but not ridiculous.”