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
I like going to the theater to see a play, but some days I think I may be the last person in New York who can still say that. What producers offer up as a dramatic event, especially on Broadway, makes me think I belong in either another country or a different century. Don't get me wrong; this is not a reactionary's plea for a return to the Scribean well-made play: I've translated Scribe and know his value, but I also know the difference between 1842 Paris and 2002 New York. I am not a formalist snob; I'll gladly take anything that unfolds its sense to me onstage as I watch.
That's what distresses me, to varying degrees, about the events under review: They don't make complete theatrical sense. The Graduate, to start at the bottom of the barrel, doesn't make any sense at all. Seeing it, I didn't know whyaside from profiteering off a famous titleanyone had gone to the trouble of putting it there. And its lack of purpose reached backward to infect other phenomena: If Terry Johnson's adaptation is in any way an accurate representation of Charles Webb's novel, which I've never read, then the novel must also not make any sense. Why did Mike Nichols ever want to film it? He apparently got around the problem somehow, because I vaguely remember the movie making sense. And I never used to think it was all that great, but having seen Johnson's attempt at staging, my hat is off to Nichols, who must be a master of cinema to have made anything at all out of this petty, sordid, incoherent mess.
The Graduateis, or ought to be, the story of a boy who has everything but doesn't know what he wants. Postponing any commitment to the future, he drifts into an affair with the unhappy, alcoholic wife of one of his father's business associates; even this reluctant relationship is complicated when he realizes, via some awkwardly stage-managed plot mechanics, that he loves the woman's daughter. This story would surprise nobody in Europe; from Flaubert's Éducation Sentimentale to Louis Malle's Murmur of the Heart, the French have specialized in versions of it. The surprise in 1968 was finding it planted among the feel-good inanities and Breen Office evasions of Southern California.
By Ivan Turgenev, translated by Mike Poulton
Music Box Theatre
Broadway and 45th Street
By Suzan-Lori Parks
Broadway and 49th Street
This synopsis, however, comes from memory and inference, not from the flaccid onstage antics at the Plymouth, where life is a contextless void and Benjamin Braddock's coming-of-age looks more like a psychopath's first foray into lunacy. Even that, though, seems infinitely saner than the audience's desire to see a well-made movie turned into a clumsy three-dimensional simulacrum. Why not just rent the video? It doesn't even need to be colorized. (As far as that goes, Technicolor would be an improvement over some of Hugh Vanstone's monochrome lighting effects.)
Still more puzzling is the notion that 20 seconds of Kathleen Turner naked in an extremely dim twilight might be worth the current cost of a Broadway ticket. I don't mean to be ungracious, but the desperate can probably find younger and more beautiful women available for closer inspection at the same price. This would spare them having to sit through the script, next to which the book of Mamma Mia! looks like Hegel's Phenomenology of Mind. Most of Johnson's employee victimsthe word "actors" is hardly appropriateunderstandably seem to have given up. Turner, who presumably felt called upon to make some effort at acting, offers a truly peculiar reading of Mrs. Robinson, equal parts parody sex kitten, high-comedy matron, and horror-movie bitch.
In her defense, it's hard to imagine any legitimate way of enlivening the role: This is, after all, the version in which Mrs. Robinson became a drunken slut because her daughter was so well behaved. Still, her composure as she stands there placidly, egg from the dimwit dialogue trickling down her face, is hard on Jason Biggs, who actually seems to have some acting ability and, poor schnook, is apparently trying to use it. His struggle is torture to watch; he loses every round, but you can't blame him, when even an actor as good and practiced as Victor Slezak, who plays Mr. Robinson, is beaten from the get-go. I wish them both a real play, and a director, next time. As for the audience that likes this thing, I wish it an evening of TV commercialswhich some enterprising London money-grubber is probably planning as I write.
A Poor Gentleman is the name of a real but slight early play by Ivan Turgenev, written in a time when stage conventions were stock and theatergoing both more casual and cheaper. Fitted up by adapter Mike Poulton with a dressy Shakespearean titlean injudicious ploy that evokes the era of Scott-Moncrieffit now seems alternately thin and bloated from the effort to make it into a big-ticket Broadway item. And underneath there's a constant nagging sense that it might reveal a good deal more richness in a gentler, less pressured handling.
The title character (Alan Bates) is a hanger-on at a wealthy young heiress's estate. When she comes back from Petersburg with a dapper husband in tow, the hero has to rebuild his relationship to her or get his walking papers. His principal obstacle is the comic lead (Frank Langella), a parvenu neighbor who despises the shabby-genteel hero while simultaneously envying his gentlemanly credentials. Since the poor fellow can't hold his liquor, the parvenu tries to get him ousted by getting him drunk. Result: A secret comes out that turns everybody's life topsy-turvy, requiring all the hero's tact and the new bridegroom's forbearance to set it right again.