122.
THE PLAY’S THE THING
The entrance to the Storm Theatre, in the basement of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Morningside Heights.
During
the 1920s Budapest was a major European theatrical hub, its leading playwright
being the Hungarian Jew Ferenc Molnar. His plays enjoyed an international
reputation, the best known probably being LILIOM, the inspiration for
Rodgers and Hammerstein’s classic musical CAROUSEL. Rivaling it in popularity
has been THE PLAY’S THE THING, which—as adapted by P.G. Wodehouse—had its world
premiere in Great Neck, NY, in 1926, shortly before opening on Broadway for a
hit-length run of 313 performances. It has subsequently
had several New York revivals, both on and Off Broadway, two of which I vaguely
recall seeing. New York Times critic
Brooks Atkinson wrote of the 1926 staging: “the enjoyment is not always
constant, but Molnar’s complete relaxation, his remarkable understanding of
situation, his coruscating dialogue, his sly innuendo refresh and exhilarate.” Seeing
it now at the tiny Storm Theatre, located in the basement (I’m tempted to say
catacombs) of the imposing Cathedral of Notre Dame at 114th Street and
Morningside Drive, does not inspire me to pen a similar encomium, although the
Storm deserves support for resuscitating the play as part of its Molnar
project, which plans to revive two more of the playwright’s plays.
Alexis Kelley and Brian Linden. Photo: Michael Abrams.
The play (THE PLAY AT THE CASTLE in Hungarian)
takes place in a count's castle on the Italian Riviera where star actress, or prima
donna, as she is called, Ilona Szabo (Alexis Kelley), is staying, and which is
visited a day earlier than expected by leading Budapest playwright Sandor Turai
(Joe Danbusky), his collaborator, Mansky (Andy Allis), and the handsome young
composer Albert Adam (Jeff Kline), in love with Ilona. The walls are so thin
that this trio overhears the actress in a compromising conversation with the
romantic actor, Almady (Reginald Owen), a married man with four children. Although
Ilona soon dismisses Almady, Albert is driven to distraction with jealousy, but
the gifted Sandor, who needs Albert to write music for his new play, concocts a scheme whereby, overnight, he writes a one-act to be performed at a
castle entertainment. In it the dialogue from the illicit lovers’
conversation is employed to convince Albert that what he overheard was actually
one of Sandor’s plays being rehearsed and not the conduct of an illicit
encounter. Two other characters take part in the play: the buffoonish Mr.
Mell (James Henry Doan), who struggles to stage manage the evening's entertainment, and
the dryly solicitous Johann Dwornitscheck (Spencer Aste), the accommodating
footman who seems a direct steal of the Waiter in Shaw’s YOU NEVER CAN TELL.
Presented in the three-quarters round
under the direction of Peter Dobbin, the low-budget set, designed by Josh
Iacovelli, is unable to do more than hint at the glamor
of what should evoke a lavish environment. This is one of those plays whose elegance demands
an exquisite physical representation. The steps and platform at one end of the
room, replete with medieval arch and glassless. arched window openings, was
seen in last season’s LE CID; it’s too bad that Michael Abrams’s lighting can’t
keep the shadows cast by the arch and windows from being visible on the sky drop.
Most of the men dress in a semblance of 1920s formal evening wear or, during the day, off-white
linen suits; the one area where the revival approaches the required gossamer beauty
is Ilona’s costumes, attractively designed by Molly Mastrandrea.
THE PLAY’S THE THING (available as a
musical, ROUGH CROSSING, by Tom Stoppard) is often called a farce, and, at one
time, it was also considered a risqué piece worthy of adult enjoyment. Today’s audience would barely consider the
material even mildly naughty but it’s still possible to detect vestiges of what
might once have been hilarious here. I wish I could say, though, that the show
I viewed raised more than an occasional titter, a word that reminds me of how Almady’s
overheard description of what sounded like Ilona’s breast turns out to have
been merely a reference to her shoulder. Are you tittering yet?
Although it’s hard to appreciate the
play’s charm and wit without the presence of veteran players gifted at portraying urbane ladies and gents
stuck in some ridiculous situation, the play does wake up, if belatedly and
all-too-briefly, during the last act’s fast-paced, expertly constructed play-within-the-play. In it, Molnar creates a challenging give-and-take between the masterfully
manipulative Sandor and the desperate Almady, who must avoid his
indiscretion being found out by his wife.
One
of this play’s most admired features is its Pirandellian playing with the
difference between illusion and reality, or between authenticity and artificiality;
ironically, too much of the acting seems fake (except, as in the
play-within-the play, when it’s supposed to be), and few performances rise
above competence. Sandor is played by Mr. Sandusky with an appropriate
combination of smugness and pseudo-sophistication, but it mostly remains on the
same level throughout; he captures Sandor’s superior intelligence, but fails to
make it continually diverting. Technically, the most challenging role is that
of Almady, whom Sandor wishes to ridicule for his extramarital canoodling;
during the long play-within-a-play scene—meant to satirize the florid style of
19th-century dramatist Victorien Sardou—Almady complains about being forced to speak
the names of people and places containing multiple, hyphenated components. Mr.
Linden (an ectomorph who, sorry to say, is anything but a matinee idol) manages to run
off these memory-challenging tongue-twisters with admirable precision and
timing; like so much else in this production, however, his work is earnest but fails to roll ‘em in the
aisles. Ms. Kelly as Ilona is very attractive, but her voice is often shrill
and her acting superficial.
To sum up: if the play’s the thing, so
must be the performance.
