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
Albee's vanishing trick is a philosophy professor's unusually graphic lecture on the difference between what we have and what we imagine. Is the baby real because the young couple says so, or unreal because the older couple says not? We do hear it crying once or twice, but offstage sounds, like wadded-up blankets, are dubious evidence in the theater. Challenged, Albee's Boy and Girl don't seem to know the gender of their baby; perhaps they don't know themselves, or each other, as well as they might, though they romp around in the nude often enough to have a thorough acquaintance with each other's physical surface. If this distracts from Albee's philosophic lucubrations, that's OK: All experienced teachers use jokes and digressions to lighten the burden of their lessons.
Often enough, the digressions turn out to be the point. Albee's play is, in essence, one long sleight-of-hand trick, with the vanishing act for a capper; every scene is a new digression. It's exactly like "real" life, where we don't spend our time thinking about the meaning of being; we just are. Albee's Boy and Girl have a pretty story about how they met (as she awoke from a coma in a hospital room), and another about how their baby was born. But he seems fixated on a different story, about some tough kids who broke his arm when he was a schoolboy, and may have done more than that; she shows unexpected dubiety about his inclination toward sexual experiment. It's not so much that there's more to them as that there's otherwhich would keep them apart if the baby weren't there to cement their relationship. Put that way, Albee's arcane setup suddenly seems not only understandable but normal, a way of rendering in drama what happens every day offstage.
Time and Again
By Jack Viertel and James Hart,
music and lyrics by Walter Edgar Kennon,
based on the book by Jack Finney
Manhattan Theatre Club
131 West 55th Street 212-581-1212
Albee's older couple, called Man and Woman, have stories to tell, too, as if to convey humbly that they're not just vindictive symbols of metaphysical Truth. She gets a long, comically overwrought description of her youthful love affair with a famous painter, which sounds cribbed from somebody's memoir of Augustus John. The Man's anecdotes, in contrast, tend toward vaudeville-routine nonsense, like the one about his children being black, white, and green ("Half green?" "Pale green"). One can't be sure, though: His most pungent narrative, about forgetting the name of a female party guest who turns out to be his mother, comes directly from the author's own biography. Obviously certain private levers are being pulled herethere may be another one in the constant spoonerizing of Burns's famous line as "Oh, what a wangled teb we weave"but Albee doesn't invite us to speculate on these murkier matters. He just wants us to know that life is confusing, truth is painful, and illusion is what we cling to. Who's weaving that tangled web anyway, and practicing to deceive: the young couple, the older couple, or their creator? If the play seems a mere tidbit of merchandise, packed in an extra-large box, be careful: You might be throwing out a vital piece of goods with the those pesky styrofoam beads. The baby, as it were, with the bathwater.
Not that you'd want to throw out all the packaging, though Albee's repetitions begin to sound like padding after a while. Man (Brian Murray) is the evening's MC and chief manipulator, and Murray has a sublimely vaudevillean good timenow easygoing, now stepping the pressure upas he slides along the twisty ski trails of sentences that Albee's laid out for him. Ever amiable, Murray never works himself to a frazzle in that audience-wearying way some performers have. What would be the use? Albee's seen to it that every spin down the slopes ends with his crashing into a rockin the sculpturally splendid form of the woman playing opposite him.
"Ignore her," Murray snarls at us at one point. But nobody, anywhere, ever, ignored Marian Seldes, or ever will. It would be easier to ignore the "Ode to Joy," or the George Washington Bridge, or sunset over the Sangre de Cristos. Woman, which is how the program identifies Seldes, is both romantically self-dramatizing and the evening's principal clown. Common enough in naturalistic comedies, this blend isn't so easy to bring off in a play where all the usual signposts have been removed. Seldes can do it. Taller in artistic stature than anything onstage, including the play, she has the essential quality of great art: no shame. At the evening's digressive apex, the script obliges her to decide, suddenly, that she must sign for the hearing-impaired while Murray divagates on the life of Jesus. People who tell you they could follow, through the resultant laughter, more than five consecutive words of Murray's speech must be lying; the last time I heard a whole theater roar this way, Bert Lahr was shinnying up the proscenium arch.