The Rattlestick Theatre has a vintage tin ceiling. I noticed it because I kept rolling my eyes at all the contrived drama in “Little Doc.”
Written by Dan Klores — a publicist turned director of well-received documentaries like “Crazy Love” — the play packs in a lot of clichés in a tight 90 minutes. From aimless men with father-figure issues to the familiar combo of drugs ‘n’ thugs, Klores covers several bases of the tough-guy school.
An exercise in gimlet-eyed nostalgia, “Little Doc” is set in 1975 Brooklyn during the sixth game of the World Series — the TV broadcast punctuates the action.
While both hipsters and the upper-middle-class flock to contemporary Brooklyn, 35 years ago the borough was far from cool. Fairly or not, the Brooklyn of the ’70s has become shorthand for a narrow — but colorful! — life full of small-time crooks and hopeless losers.
And they’re all here, stuck into a crummy apartment above a crummy bar. Above, the younger generation is busy snorting, smoking and shooting up; below, the grizzled owner looks twice as tough and four times as mean.
Our anti-hero is Ric (Adam Driver), who claims he wants to escape with Peggy (Joanne Tucker). Following the laws of the genre, the woman is the most ambitious of the bunch but her actions make no sense: Peggy was smart enough to get into Radcliffe, and dumb enough not to go.
Klores piles on the shock tactics — this is yet another play with onstage vomiting — and 11th-hour revelations, but to little effect.
Granted, the cast bears some responsibility. Under John Gould Rubin’s direction, they never suggest a visceral connection with the material.
Ric’s life hasn’t been easy — though that didn’t seem to hamper his ability to do biceps curls — and by the end of the show, he’s collapsed into a teary husk of a man. But Driver keeps very tight control over a character who’s lost it.
Too bad: “Little Doc” is the kind of play that needs a mad-dog cast.