Lombardo is not without skill as a writer; some of Sister Jamie's monologues, in particular, brim with a sardonic poignancy that Turner, a single-malt emanating from her larynx, handles with matter-of-fact conviction. And I don't doubt that this cautionary tale has found fans among those who struggle with issues of addiction and faith. But it would better engage if it dropped its sledgehammer in favor of a probe. Certainly Evan Jonigkeit flings himself into the part of the wounded young addict, rendering him both disaffected and pitiable. But Cody is more a connect-the-dots arrangement of tragic clichés than a character, leaving Jonigkeit little to play but raw, tremulous emotion. It isn't cheap, exactly, but it looks like acting. And it makes you grateful for Turner's more modulated performance — even as you wish it were the flammable cherry on some worthier sundae.
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