By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Alice James, the heroine of Susan Sontag's Alice in Bed, is almost totally bedridden. In Ivo van Hove's production, the flashes Sontag's script supplies of her past and her dream-time are restricted to video fantasies, dialogues the bed-bound Alice carries on with taped voices presumably in her head. The advent of a three-dimensional intruder, late in the intermissionless 95-minute evening, virtually makes her jump off her mattress with excitement, and we empathize: Nothing van Hove and Sontag have shown us up to that point has excited us much, either. Sontag, whose brilliant essays can make ideas dance and clash in thrillingly dramatic ways, is hopelessly devoid of talent as an imaginative writer. As with her novels, there's a faint echo here of someone else's more interesting work on the same subjectin this case an earlier dreamlike play about Alice James, Joan Schenkar's Signs of Life, produced by the Women's Project in the early '80s. (Sontag's play was published in 1993.)
But one doesn't need to allege borrowings to perceive that Sontag's theatrical sense is entirely secondhand, an attempt to reproduce what sounds like dramatic dialogue rather than to create what a given character would say at some exact moment. Apart from Alice's brother Henry, whose wanly condescending affection has some human distinctness, her people are as indistinguishable from each other by their diction as the speakers on a language-lesson tape; Margaret Fuller and Emily Dickinson, sharing a "mad" tea party with Alice, might as easily be Margaret Chase Smith and Emily Brontë. The other mild exception to this dead tonality is the intruder whose advent gets Alice out of bed, a young burglar whose speeches, in which Sontag attempts a vaguely Cockney vernacular, sound like Mayhew with the grammar muddied. They're not improved in performance by the casting of a Belgian actor whose attempt at the accent turns them into mush.
A Class Act
By Linda Kline and Lonny Price, music and lyrics by Ed Kleban
Manhattan Theatre Club
131 West 55th Street 212-399-3030
By Lee Blessing
Lucille Lortel Theatre
121 Christopher Street 212-239-6200
Van Hove's production is based on a cruelly accurate sense of the script's solipsism. He's stripped away all theatrical appurtenances. There are no scenes as such, no shifts in time or place, no entrances or exits, only what the title offersAlice, in bed. Everyone else exists only on tape. Jan Versweyfeld's design surrounds the bed with a constantly changing array of screens, all shapes and sizes, a pretty barrage of images that enchants you with its sense of mental complexity externalizedfor roughly five minutes, after which it becomes just as monotonous as the text. The latter's made more so by long stretches during which only the taped voices converse, while Joan MacIntosh's Alice is condemned to writhe silently in reaction.
MacIntosh, one of the world's best living actresses and surely one of its gamest, does everything that's demanded of her and more. She inhabits the character, pinpoints meanings in the lines, gives them what animation she can. She growls, whimpers, moans, and in one extended section even sings a paragraph or two. She does it all with complete conviction. And it's all wasted effort, aimed at launching a work guaranteed not to fly. The irony is that van Hove's initial choice, in revealing the work for what it is, also reveals why neither he nor anyone else should have bothered to put it onstage.
In a much different atmosphere, uptown, Lonny Price bounces in and out of a sickbed as the late Ed Kleban, best known as the lyricist of A Chorus Line, whose songs and sufferings are the dual subject matter of A Class Act, coauthored by Price, who also directed, and Kleban's longtime companion, Linda Kline. As hypersensitive as Alice James, Kleban had a gaudier array of ailments: Choosing between law school and a musical theater career put him in a sanitarium; his list of phobias, which included elevators and airplanes, was one of the longest on record; he was variously depressive, paranoiac, sexually compulsive, and workaholic; he owned a host of psychosomatic allergies; and he finally died of a form of cancer probably brought on by smoking rather than by his less three-dimensional health problems.
Despite all this, Kleban was able to function: He sustained a long-term job at Columbia Records; he had an extended and fulfilling relationship with Lehman Engel's BMI Workshop, at that time the one place to offer any training for musical theater writers; he had at least two extended romantic relationships with women. And he wrote a lot of excellent songs, with first-rate, resourceful lyrics and pretty good, if not always first-rate, music, in a traditional Broadway mode, but none the worse for that. Kleban's life and his songs, however, don't necessarily merge to make a single class act. Undoubtedly, for people who knew and loved him, the story of his parade of illnesses is moving, perhaps even heroic; for the rest of us, it's another showbiz biography, of somebody who wasn't exactly a showbiz colossus. The excitement of watching Kleban self-destruct palls rather quickly.