But the last twist is the best one: Replacing Cooper is Paul Sparks, who delivers a sharp, stinging, and beautifully developed performance as Lee, the more overtly violent and dysfunctional of the two brothers. Fun as it might have been to watch the Corddrys together onstage, it’s hard to imagine better chemistry than Sparks develops with Nate Corddry, whose initial timidity and reserve as screenwriter Austin slowly unfurl into frightening rage.
Daniel Goldstein’s production is as smart as the work of his two lead actors. Neil Patel’s set design opens with the plain exterior of a ranch house, isolated against a blue desert sky. Then, as “stagehands’’ wheel giant movie-style lights into position, the house rotates to reveal its interior, a pitch-perfect rendition of the 1980 suburban kitchen in which all the action takes place.
The hints of moviemaking recur throughout, with more lights being raised and lowered to suggest a change from day to night; Ben Stanton’s lighting design also modulates the backdrop colors to create everything from stark desert noon to tranquil suburban twilight. Sound designer Darron L. West contributes a witty play on the Hank Williams tune that Shepard specifies for the break between acts: “Ramblin’ Man’’ plays out, then gives way to a familiar sound that’s hard to identify at first, because it’s rarely heard these days. It’s the repetitive thump-scratch of a needle hitting the center label of a vinyl record.
That’s brilliant because it nails Shepard’s central concern, both in “True West’’ and elsewhere. He’s writing at once about our fantasies - particularly men’s fantasies, it must be said - of the West and of the “true’’ Western man, and about the reality that contradicts those fantasies, and probably always has. We hear an authentic twang in Williams’s sorrowful voice, but the authenticity is canned.
