“I wanted to do something that was not about me. If I could do one thing a day that wasn’t about career or weight loss, that would be profound. But if I do lose weight while I do this, that would be wonderful.”—Bust
An overcrowded women’s prison is the last spot most people would choose as a place of refuge, but it’s where Lauren Weedman ends up in Bust. Looking to augment her life with something other than humiliating auditions and the self-obsession of her Hollywood compatriots, Lauren volunteers as a prisoner advocate. Weedman employs all of her linguistic and physical dexterity to create these seemingly disparate worlds. She deftly careens back and forth, embodying dozens of characters, from a surly, authoritative guard to a hilariously immodest, dachshund-rescuing sauna occupant to a quietly dignified but violent prisoner.
No one escapes Weedman’s satiric treatment—not even herself, as the unabashedly outspoken Lauren is repeatedly and wittingly depicted as flawed. The consequences of her blunt honesty are the crux of the play’s parallel plotline: After blurting out her darkest personal story to a group of near-strangers, Lauren is contracted by a plucky Glamour editor to write a confessional essay about the controversial ordeal. As she loses editorial control in the rewriting process and endures vitriolic backlash upon the article’s forced publication, the core of Bust emerges: It doesn’t matter if you’re figuratively or literally confined, everyone just wants someone to listen to their story.
Although there’s irony to the fact that Weedman’s volunteerism, initially intended as an escape from the narcissism of her career, resulted in a one-woman play, Bust skips any excessive self-congratulation and provides this unlikely altruist with the perfect platform to give voice to all—the vapid, the sincere, and, most importantly, the perpetually unheard.