Love is a gift, in any form it takes. At least that’s the premise of Neil LaBute’s meticulously unsettling opus, Wrecks. Ed Harris, supported only by plumes of cigarette smoke, plays a Midwestern businessman at his wife’s wake. He’s charmingly boyish as he shares the story of their scandalous romance: She was 15 years his senior and married when they met. ”I’m leaving a lot out,” he admits. ”It’s private.” Indeed. Only an actor as disarming as Harris can project moral outrage from behind a veil of moral confusion. We all have secrets and contradictions, and Harris masterfully dissects both.