Had John deGroot not written this engaging peek into a vodka-soaked afternoon in the life of Ernest Hemingway, then actor Adrian Sparks would have had to commission this one-man show elsewhere. Rarely does one witness a performer so completely inhabiting the skin of an historical figure. Hemingway prowls around the living room of his Cuban home railing against emasculating women and spinning out his ongoing romance with death while pouring ever pinker Bloody Marys. Unlike real people, this character becomes more captivating the drunker he gets. The script, constructed from interviews with many who knew the famed author, has both the ring of truth and the thrill of eavesdropping, as the portrait is not altogether flattering. It is never, however, unbelievable.

Sparks is a consummate raconteur as he draws the audience in, the conceit being that we are there as a photographer from Life Magazine, something for which Hemingway is not completely prepared. He is unprepared for a great many things, it later becomes evident, including the demands of fame, the demands of marriage, and the toll life takes on the body. The directorial hand is so deftly employed as to be invisible. Martha Demson has obviously not let her actor run wild—that kind of show has a special look all its own—but her vision and that of her actor meld so seamlessly as to cause the audience members to forget we're watching a performance. By the time the show builds to an almost Homeric conclusion, with thunder crashing and Hemingway letting loose a few lighting bolts of his own, we are utterly in its thrall.

The writer's lair, as envisioned by set designer Jeff G. Rack, is sure to inspire horror at PETA, as two pheasants, a smattering of skulls, and a fair number of cloven-hoofed mammals gaze placidly from the walls of the handsomely tropical room. Great care has gone into outfitting it with the accouterments of the hunter and writer, and it shows.