The iron bars of smug do-goodery and significant social issues cannot contain the comic genius of Lauren Weedman. We tell you what, unless more than one North Korean missile is headed our way, you have no good excuse to miss seeing Bust at the Empty Space Theatre. We may have dropped a few pounds from laughter -- which we're stealing from the point in the show where she suggests to the orientation leader that volunteering in L.A. jails would shoot through the roof if, you know, it turned out to have weight-loss advantages.
This is the Empty Space's debut in its new location at 12th and Marion, across the street from Lark and Licorous. It's terrific, a comfortable, intimate space that Carol Wolfe Clay's multi-use, multi-personality sets make the most of. Tickets are $25/Weds & Thurs, $30/Fri & Sat. The weeknight shows start at 7:30pm, weekends at 8:00pm. Bust runs through August 5.
A former Daily Show correspondent, Weedman has a long and illustrious Seattle history, with past appearances at On the Boards, ACT, and Empty Space. Frankly, when we heard Bust was a 90-minute, one-woman dramatic piece about volunteering to talk with people in jail, hilarity wasn't the first thing that popped into our minds. But Bust is satirical, insightful, and warm-hearted, though the humor tends to slice close to the bone, especially if you're involved in dachshund rescue.
The reviews are in, and we weren't the only ones clapping like a seal and barking. That's because there's real depth to the show -- Weedman is as funny as a bottlerocket in a round room, but hers is the kind of comedy that addresses pain, humiliation, and indignity without blinking.
As directed by Allison Narver, and working within a set by Carol Wolfe Clay that puts the schematic design of Dogville to better use, Weedman is trying to live within the lines, follow the rules, and focus less on herself. So she decides to volunteer at the Los Angeles jail. She'll provide a willing ear for inmates who may have no one else to confide in.
Weedman's inmates include a meth-addicted prostitute, a sob-story con artist, and a "violent" criminal. She bounces in, fresh from walks on the beach and Pepsi commercial auditions, and quickly learns about the humanity and inhumanity of her impetuous decision. We see Weedman's life outside the jail, too -- as it turns out, she's still dealing with the aftershocks of an earlier rash decision, when she lied about being raped. When Glamour magazine asks her to write an article, to give her side -- the editor speaks from up a staircase, with an amplified voice, a booming figure of authority who steadily crumbles -- it doesn't improve the situation.
We were especially impressed by the light hand Weedman used in contrasting her life with jail life; it's never one-to-one, like, you know, "the superficiality of L.A. is so confining." When, after admitting and trying to explain/minimize her grievous lie, Weedman then mentions how much she dislikes the con artist inmate for telling her lies in order to use her, she leaves the moment alone. When she produces a steady stream of jokes, hysterically (in all senses of the word), on items smuggled into jail in the inmate's "Kate Spade knock-off," the ass, it's because she is horrified. Thankfully, there's no scene later where she sits down to explain -- seriously now -- how horrific it is.
Our only quibble is that the ending still feels rushed. After so much set-up, and getting to know the inmates courtesy of Weedman's startling mimicry, the final scenes flash past -- we were still processing the last lines when Weedman took her bow.

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