Is the meaning of art in the eye of the beholder? Are there objective standards by which art can be judged? Should a painting complement the wallpaper?
These are the sort of musings that constitute Man, Woman, Flower, a series of flimsy conversations set in a gallery. The stage set consists of a couple of benches and a large frame that holds only air, so the painting of naked lovers that’s discussed by the characters is only imagined. Dan LaRocque’s talky script, clocking in at about 40 minutes, is half-baked and unfunny. It takes a too-broad swipe, for instance, at a Bible-toting Christian who condemns the painting as smut. This character pointlessly speaks in song lyrics.
The five-person local cast includes a tall young man who can’t stop pushing his hair out of his eyes, and a dark-haired young woman who doesn’t project her voice. The show wants to be a sharp, thought-provoking satire, but it’s more preliminary sketch than collectible masterwork.
— Alison Mayes