The critics are very divided about Polly Stenham’s “That Face,” something I find positive. It’s healthy for some plays to not be consensual. And it’s healthy for Manhattan Theatre Club to produce them, as opposed to the lukewarm stuff they’re normally drawn to. Also encouraging : The This (“This Wide Night”) and That (“That Face”) plays that opened last week were both written and directed by female teams. Shows entirely conceived and run by men are so considered the norm that nobody bats an eye when they happen; the reverse is rare enough to be noted.
Anyway, back to “That Face.” Colleagues have compared Laila Robins’ toxic character to the likes of Blanche Dubois and other stage maternal monsters. But the relationship between Robins’ character and her 18-year-old son reminded more me of one of Bertolucci’s more obscure movies, 1979’s “La Luna.” Jill Clayburgh plays an opera singer who develops an unhealthy rapport with her son, a junkie, and the mother-son relationship in “That Face” has a similar claustrophobic, overheated quality. I haven’t seen the movie in a looooonnng time, but it left quite an impression. Look at this clip: How gorgeous does Clayburgh look?! She’s the epitome of the voluptuously coiffed 1970s female star.