Perhaps now that he's 50, Neil LaBute is too old to be considered the enfant terrible of playwrights. But there's something about LaBute's well-earned reputation as a crafter of cruel men and vindictive women who machine-gun each other with piercing dialogue that makes it impossible to imagine him softening or mellowing as a writer. This is the same man who establishes in the first ten minutes of "Helter Skelter" the domestic quietude of a husband and wife meeting for lunch at a favorite restaurant after a long day of Christmas shopping for their children, only to end it with that visibly pregnant wife grinning savagely with a table knife jammed in her belly, glad to have caused her philandering husband such great pain in a... More >>>