Looking on the Whiteside

Sealed tight against reality, The Man Who Came to Dinner is an immaculately structured anarchy. Everything in it is perfectly, symmetrically implausible, but its symmetrical non-surprises come dressed in an outrageous, purplish verbal fabric that perfectly conceals their conventionality. To write something this purely fictive, you need your feet firmly planted on the ground and your eyes wide open, like Kaufman and Hart: If a famous radio personality, compelled to dine at the home of a wealthy small-town family, slipped on an icy doorstep, fractured his hip, and had to stay there a month, this is exactly what would transpire—granting that no such home and no such people could possibly exist. In its unreality, the play is innocent; in its smart-aleck verbal sassiness, it's sophisticated. The disparity between the two produces a syncopated energy that keeps it fresh even today, when radio personalities have been reduced to hortatory bigots, and most of the famous names the play trades on, like Kit Cornell and William Beebe, are meaningless to the audience.

The most famous name of all back then, and the least familiar today, is the one that goes ostentatiously unmentioned: Alexander Woollcott. Drama critic, radio raconteur, professional celebrity, and cylinder-shaped, squeaky-voiced, self-appointed head of the Algonquin Round Table, Woollcott was as beloved nationally as he was mocked and feared by his intimates. ("Nero in a pinafore," Edna Ferber once called him.) His popularity, especially with middle-class clubwomen, was the more remarkable since he was a born outsider. Vaguely effeminate in appearance (he had an undescended testicle and seems never to have consummated any sort of sexual relationship), he was archly turn-of-the-century in both his ornate phraseology and his tastes—sentimental fiction, Gilbert and Sullivan, parlor games, the acting of Mrs. Fiske. At the same time, the ornate phrases masked a blunt cruelty, the flossy tastes an unrelenting competitiveness, that seemed almost schizoid in the context of his syrupy gushings over Christmas, American democracy, and the latest works of artists on his favored list. When rebuked for his contradictions or blocked from his pleasures, he went into tantrums that could terrify even those closest to him: He was probably bipolar as well as monorchid.

Kaufman and Hart's comedy doesn't explore the darker side of this curious figure (a friend of both who himself once collaborated on a play with Kaufman). It simply plunks him down in his wheelchair, in the home of a couple to whom he is antipathetic, and builds a mechanically efficient bedlam out of the results. Whiteside, a/k/a Woollcott, lures away the couple's cook, plays Friar Laurence to their daughter's romance with a union organizer (his host owns the factory being organized), and prompts their son to run off and find himself. At the same time, Whiteside's cool, irreplaceable secretary falls for the local newspaper editor, so that her employer has to scheme, first, to break up the romance, and then to repair when he realizes the harm he's doing. Whiteside's perception of a skeleton in the family's closet wins him the first battle; an 11th-hour gift of the kind we've seen him receive all through rescues faithful Maggie's love affair. Innocent of plausibility, the action seems to take place in a magical, enclosed world, like the roach farm Whiteside receives from an entomologist friend early on, full of constant scurrying about and rich with previously unheard sounds. Woollcott's late-Victorian floridity inspired the authors to their own glorious excess of expression; it's been a long time since a Broadway audience laughed this much at the words of a play.

Nathan Lane as Sheridan Whiteside: jests for dinner
photo: Joan Marcus
Nathan Lane as Sheridan Whiteside: jests for dinner


The Man Who Came To Dinner
By Moss Hart & George S. Kaufman
American Airlines (ugh!) Theatre
227 West 42nd Street 212-719-1300

Spinning Into Butter
By Rebecca Gilman
Mitzi E. Newhouse Theater
Lincoln Center 212-239-6200

Audiences get more than words to enjoy at the attractively restored Selwyn Theatre, which some corporate pigs, of the kind ridiculed in the play through Whiteside's host, have compelled the Roundabout to rename for their corporate sty. Fortunately, on this show the production team flew united: Tony Walton's set, first-rate work after a string of recent embarrassments, wittily extends the auditorium's curves and motifs into the onstage living room so we're all in the Stanley home; William Ivey Long dresses the cast with subtlety and period flair. Director Jerry Zaks shapes the action naturalistically, at an easy pace, which is sometimes disconcerting: He doesn't "build" to the act curtains with the traditional manic frenzy. And some of his cast, notably Harriet Harris as Maggie, seem uncertain as to how real emotions should be in this wacky enclosed world.

Most of the company, though, knows precisely how to let inner feeling anchor them without stifling the play's airiness. Terry Beaver and Linda Stephens make Mr. and Mrs. Stanley both touching and dreadful; Byron Jennings mixes sobriety with dash as the Noël Coward-like Beverly Carlton; asked to contribute only one note each to the mix, skilled hands like William Duell, Ruby Holbrook, Stephen De Rosa, and Julie Boyd know how to make it sound three or four different ways. Jean Smart, playing an actress wholly antithetical to her persona, has contrived to stretch and tuck the role till it seems based on her. Airiest of all is Lewis J. Stadlen, playing Banjo, who stars in movies with his brothers Wacko and Sloppo. There's something of Harpo in Stadlen's free-floating giddiness, plus a lot of Groucho and a hearty helping of Jimmy Durante, who played Banjo in the film version. More than anything, there's a sense of liberation: Stadlen plays as if all his previous roles had been a prison and this one were the governor's amnesty. There's pleasure in just watching a man be this happy onstage.

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