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Ben
Brantley

September 27, 2017

The man standing before us, a middle-aged geologist with festering mother issues, doesn’t like sharing his feelings with others. Yet because he is the center of a drama, and a memory play at that, he finds himself baring the unmentionables of his soul to an abyss of unseen listeners.

As he says in the monologue that begins Max Posner’s tender and unforgiving “The Treasurer,” which opened at Playwrights Horizons on Tuesday night, “Talking in front of people is my idea of . . . ”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

The missing word — and the real estate that Mr. Posner has ambitiously claimed as his own in “The Treasurer” — is hell. That’s the place where the character identified only as the Son, played with a masterly mix of reluctance and compulsion by Peter Friedman, has told us he is headed. It seems clear, though, that he’s already there.

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