By Alexis Soloski
By R. C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Tom Sellar
By Araceli Cruz
By Brienne Walsh
By Alexis Soloski
By Alexis Soloski
"Sir," Dr. Johnson said to Boswell, "there is no trusting to that crazy piety." And Johnson, bear in mind, was a devout man and a staunchly conservative one himself. What, one wonders, would he have made of 1999 America, where groups of demented souls use "Christianity" to justify everything from slaughtering Jews and nonwhites at random to boycotting amusement parks that give their employees' same-sex lovers health insurance? The many madnesses that call themselves Christian in our country, all strangely eager to repudiate Christian teaching in favor of violence, materialism, and vindictiveness, are enough to drive the most temperate rationalist to fury. I, for instance, began my adult life respectful of Christians and seriously impressed by the wisdom of Jesus. After the last decade's worth of gooney-bird behavior draped in crucifictive excuses, I now think that believing Christians should not be allowed to vote, hold public office, own guns, speak on the air, or teach. I realize this is undemocratic of me, but I can't help it; it's only an inevitable reaction to endless news stories about some moronic white male who has committed some atrocity or made some particularly idiotic statement that he insists on calling Christian, though it has no more relation to Jesus's doctrines than a Giuliani fundraiser has to the homeless.
Naturally, I think all Christian churches should be seized by the state, to be converted into secular-humanist theaters; the inaugural production in each should of course be Molière's Tartuffe, the definitive play about the damage "that crazy piety" can inflict. Simple and even crude in its devices, Tartuffe is nonetheless full of mysteries. Some of them come from its having begun as a quite different play, which was banned under pressure from the religious right. In that version, which scholars have lately been trying to reconstruct, the title character seems to have been an ordained priest rather than a con manposeur; the subtitle The Impostor was added in the rewrite.
And, indeed, the subtitle is relative: We never really know how calculating an impostor Tartuffe is; like a great actor, he uses the truth to put his deceits across, and the creepiest part may be that he thinks he's doing right. Similarly, we never fully know what drives Orgon to make so much of Tartuffe at his family's expense, or to what extent Elmire actually enjoys Tartuffe's attempts to seduce her behind her elderly husband's back. The mock-innocent crudity of the writing looks transparent: Orgon, returned home, hears that his wife has been seriously ill and that Tartuffe ate a hearty meal; he exclaims, "Poor fellow!" Orgon is a wealthy, prominent, articulate man, so his response must mean something: that he hates his wife and regrets having remarried; that he feels guilty about his newly acquired wealth (he's profited by choosing the winning side in a recent civil war); that Tartuffe's pose of poverty has struck him so acutely, he thinks no amount of gorging now can make up for the man's earlier deprivation. Under the crass, brightly laminated surface joke, thickly piled motives jostle and bleed into one another, giving the play an eerie sense of being built on quicksand. No production of Tartuffe, however dark or light, can dodge its pervasive disquietude.
'Kat and the Kings'
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48th Street and Seventh Avenue 239-6200
Mark Brokaw's Central Park staging certainly tries. This is Molière for the groundlings louder, brasher, and shriller, if not always faster and funnier. No question here about Tartuffe's possible self-delusion: During the scene with Cleante, he and his servant filch the rational man's watch and money bag. The lack of subtlety isn't fatal the comic parable on the surface makes the basic point effectively enough and it isn't universal: Wendell Pierce nearly make the pompous Cleante a lively, personable fellow; J. Smith-Cameron's Elmire and Dylan Baker's Tartuffe have enough variety in their playing to at least hint at the hidden depths; and Charles Kimbrough's pixilated, jerky Orgon is like a carefully phrased question, veiling any possible hint of the right answer.
In the long run, though, the production's noise and push are detrimental; they subtract from the play's substance without adding to its fun, and they imply, condescendingly, that a Park audience can't be expected to get jokes that are both simple and true without heavy underlining. What ought to have been the two best performances are the two most weakened by Brokaw's approach: Dana Ivey's Madame Pernelle and Mary Testa's Dorine. Ivey rants, which is thoroughly unlike her; the astringent precision of her usual style was never more missed, or more appropriate. Testa garners any number of big laughs when she plays quietly, or just rolls her golf ball-sized eyes in frustration, but she yells most of her part as if addressing people on the other side of a canyon rather than two feet away. Jess Goldstein, most of whose costumes are both apt and colorful, has compounded the bedlam by dressing Testa as fancily as if she were one of the family rather than the maid. Of the younger generation, Christopher Duva is a decent Valere; Curtis McClarin, inevitably in this context, makes a shouty and obvious Damis; and Danielle Ferland's Marianne is plagued with periodic seizures of Kristin Chenoweth, a nasty condition, said to come from inhaling New York Times printer's ink, that gives young actresses a painful dumblonditis of the vocal cords.