Oct 01, 2004  |  By: PATRICK FOLLlARD  | COMMENTS     

REPORTS FROM POST-Soviet Moscow have included images of arrogant oligarchs tooling around town in customized Hummers with Gucci-clad blondes riding shotgun, while impoverished, panicky seniors sell off their meager household goods simply to maintain a diet of boiled cabbage and carrot peelings.

Through the sad but inventive life of a penniless pensioner, young playwright Oleg Bogaev explores the downside of the new Russia in his “The Russian National Postal Service.”

Making its United States premiere at Studio Theatre, Bogaev’s terrific dark comedy (translated by John Freedman) kicks off a full season of Russian drama, from classic to contemporary. Studio’s cutting edge choice to produce a series of Russian works is the result of Artistic Director Joy Zinoman’s recent tour of Russia where she experienced vibrant theater up close.

Smartly staged by Paul Mullins, “Postal Service” is the story of 70-something Ivan Sidorovich Zhukov (Floyd King). Widowed, without any family or friends, Ivan passes his unchanging, drab days by conducting an intense, ongoing correspondence.

Not only does he compose the letters, he also writes the replies. It saves on postage.

Nonchalantly, Ivan deposits his letters to himself under the bed, or in a bottomless dresser drawer, all places where he’s bound to come across them later to his feigned surprise.

In writing to world leaders, historical icons and childhood friends, Ivan livens an unyielding solitude. His notes vary: complaints, newsy missives, love letters and lamentations.

When he resorts to writing extraterrestrials and the bed bugs living in his blankets, Ivan’s alienation is made brutally evident. He’s making a desperate attempt to open the strict boundaries of the ever-shrinking sphere in which he’s forced to live.

AT LITTLE MORE than an hour without an intermission, the play is short — which is good, because writing and reading mail can get a little tedious after just so long. Yet, it’s when you begin to think you can’t bear another envelope’s opening, that Bogaev’s unusual script and King’s expert performance reels you in again.

With padding beneath his tattered plaid robe, a shock of wild gray hair, and a straggly moustache, King is almost unrecognizable as Ivan shuffling around his dingy flat. But after a slight popping of the eyes and a subtle flourish of the impeccable timing, King makes his presence known in a performance that’s both funny and perfectly tragic.

During the few moments when Ivan isn’t putting pen to paper, he’s playing Russian folk songs on the accordion (to the distress of his neighbor), or napping. It’s when he’s asleep that Queen Elizabeth II (Catherine Flye) and Lenin (Tobin Atkinson) appear in his apartment to debate economics or discuss Ivan’s plight.

Eventually all of Ivan’s pen pals come together in his little room for the old man’s birthday party/ reading of his will. It’s an astonishing sight to see legendary figures, Martians and vermin vie for a spot in Ivan’s heart and home, clamoring for his or her share of Ivan’s passel of worthless possessions.

Debra Booth has ingeniously made Ivan’s rented room using almost a fun house perspective, sort of like a colorless version of Van Gogh’s “Vincent’s Bedroom in Arles.” Michael Gianitti’s lighting is wintry and sometimes shimmers with warmth of fond memory.

In this funnily odd but searing play, Bogaev beautifully makes his point: In a changing world, those left behind are forced to draw upon deep and unplumbed resources if they’re going to survive.