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
The word "glum" above is an understatement: I walked into David Henry Hwang's Yellow Face feeling active dread. Fond as my memories of Hwang's best work are, the last few decades have seen him become American playwriting's symbol of socially approved preachiness. His script for Tarzan alone was enough to sink a lesser artist's reputation: Once you've made a pair of gorillas discuss their human foster son's problems in the diction of an after-school special, what hope can there be?
Plenty, it turns out. Charming, touching, and cunningly organized as well as funny, Yellow Face constitutes Hwang's comic atonement for his years as a political corrector. Its main satirical target is a self-important playwright called . . . David Henry Hwang. Granted, this has its own self-important ring; as Max Beerbohm said of Ibsen's last plays, "It is an instance of his egotism that he has reserved his fiercest kick for himself." But comparing a playwright to Ibsen, even as an egotist, amounts to a high compliment. And Yellow Face has an Ibsenite reach and stature far beyond any issues of Hwang's self-image. Starting from his emergence as a leader in the Asian-American theater community's battle with Cameron Mackintosh over Jonathan Pryce's appearance in Miss Saigon, Yellow Face tracks the deepening disaffection of its author-hero (Hoon Lee) with the rigidities of ethnic-based casting, leading to a crazy reversal of positions when he promotes an actor of doubtful ethnicity (Noah Bean) who then begins to outdo him as an anti-discrimination spokesman. Added complications come from nonartistic realms: Federal investigators target Hwang's banker father (Francis Jue) because of his bank's troubling transactions with the Chinese government; allegations of espionage against the Chinese American physicist Wen Ho Lee make news headlines; the eagerness of a single New York Times reporter (Anthony Torn) to cover both stories starts to look troublingly like bias to the already beleaguered playwright.
Hwang, in other words, has learned from bitter experiences where discrimination matters and where it doesn't, and has combined the two in a mordant, reflective comedy that works not only as a personal summation but as a pattern for us all as we pick our cautious way through the thicket of claims and counterclaims that marks America's transactions with its minorities. Generous enough to give the Times reporter (drolly identified in the program as "Name Withheld on Advice of Counsel") a shiny moment of non-bias, Hwang has also been sly enough to build a Christmas-cracker trick into his play that explodes this and many other "sincere" moments when, at the end, he pulls the string. Leigh Silverman's playful, quick-paced production, easily catching Hwang's many shifts of tone, supports his underlying thesis by assigning its multiple roles with an airy disregard for race and gender. Lee's wonderfully hapless Hwang deepens from the deadpan bewilderment of his early scenes to a near-tragic condition at the end. Jue, movingly anchored as the hero's maddening yet lovable father, shows himself at the same time to be one of our best scampish comedians in his many small roles, including a note-perfect cartoon of the late Bernard B. Jacobs in highest dudgeon.
Speaking of scamps, the British director Michael Blakemore apparently loves them as much as I do. The rave reviews of Is He Dead? have mostly attributed its success to Norbert Leo Butz, who plays the lead. Butz, a fine outrageous clown, misses none of the droll opportunities built into the lead role of a poverty-stricken painter who fakes his own death and then, while disguised as his widowed sister, watches the price of his canvases skyrocket. But it's Blakemore's astute staging, and the deliciously mismatched gang of cutups he's cast, that keeps Mark Twain's jovially antique comedy rolling from laugh to laugh. Besides Butz, swishing his crinolines as he chomps on a cigar, you have on one side Michael McGrath and Tom Alan Robbins as his gleefully bustling co-conspirators, and on the other, Patricia Connolly and Marylouise Burke as sympathetic spinsters doddering in harmony, and, scurrying among them, Jenn Gambatese and Bridget Regan, two sisterly ingenues far more fiery than ingenuous. For topping, add a black-wigged Byron Jennings, periodically slicing through the frenzy as a sort of Byronic Snidely Whiplash. And even he doesn't win the show's biggest laugh. That honor falls to David Pittu's giddy entrance in the first of his four small roles. Or it would, if the collective howl at the rise of the second-act curtain, as the audience spies Peter J. Davison's set, didn't top even Pittu's drollery.