Too bad that two of our greatest actors -- Harris and Cullum -- found themselves saddled with such unsalvageable material. They do what they can, but they don't have believable characters that make any actual sense from moment to moment, so even their formidable talents come off mostly as muted here.
Rosemary Harris is Broadway's grande dame. She is our Helen Hayes, our Lynn Fontanne. At a minimum!
The actors do their best to ham things up. Thank heaven for that. Slyly - I'm not sure that I ought to say this - the two pros play to the audience, jettisoning any illusion of their being alone in a remote cabin. No; they're great actors on the New York stage. That ought to be an insult, but given the thinness of Mr Dorfman's material, it's an absolute blessing. Why, I can hear Ms Harris herself saying just that, nodding her head pensively while brandishing her soup ladle at the audience and pretending not to smirk. "That's just what it is - an Absolute blessing."