January 25–February 1, 1996

critical mass|theater

The Real Thing

Arden Theatre Co., 40 N. 2nd St., through Feb.18, 922-8900.

Because Tom Stoppard, probably the most enjoyed as well as most admired playwright currently writing in English, is also the most intellectual playwright currently writing in English, The Real Thing came as a surprise to his fans (among which I am among the most fanatical) when it appeared about 14 years ago. Ready as we were for still another wild, pun-filled, idea-laden lark where you try not to laugh too much because you'll miss the next zinger (prepared as we were by the earlier Travesties and still earlier Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead), The Real Thing struck some people as a delicious dip into love and sex from a writer who had seemed to live entirely in his mind. It struck others as a pleasant amusement, a bit gummed up with ardent feeling, a trifle yuppiefied. However it strikes you, it is not likely to either dazzle your mind or break your heart. But bedazzlement and heartbreak are a lot to require, and if The Real Thing falls short, it's nevertheless Stoppard, which is to say a damn sight better than almost anybody else. Of course, Stoppard anticipated the disappointment; the central character of the play is a playwright who says, "I suppose that's the fate of all us artists... People saying they preferred the early stuff." His 17-year-old daughter replies that his last play was only about "Infidelity among the architect class. Again." And so one might argue that that's exactly the trouble with The Real Thing. As Henry laments, "I don't know how to write love."

The love story begins with Henry (Paul L. Nolan) and his wife Charlotte (Sally Mercer) and another couple, Max (Leonard Haas) and Annie (Grace Gonglewski). Charlotte is an actress playing opposite Max in Henry's newest play about "infidelity among the architect class." The couples recouple, complicated by a pet political cause of Annie's, Brodie (Peter Pryor), who writes a play in prison. This is further complicated by Annie's leading man, Billy (Ian Merrill Peakes), who will play Brodie while Annie plays herself in the dreadful script written by Brodie and rewritten by Henry. If this isn't complication enough, the sexual liaisons are delectably illuminated by lines from Romeo and Juliet, handkerchiefs from Othello, tepid rehearsal scenes of Strindberg's Miss Julie, and torrid rehearsal scenes from Ford's Tis Pity She's a Whore.

Because the play depends for much of its effect on theatrical surprises — Are we watching a play or a play-within-a-play? Is this talk the real thing or is it dialogue? — it would be cruel to spoil the treat by revealing too much of the plot. Much of our sense of dislocation depends on the timing as scenes shift (living room becomes another living room becomes still another living room) and intervening years vanish. But because, under James J. Christy's direction, the actors themselves change the scene sets, and because the stage is always visible, the scenes flow into one another, undermining the crisp surprise necessary to the play.

This softening is evident in Nolan's charmless, rather sentimental portrayal of Henry, the brittle, word-obsessed closet romantic who is the pivot of the comedy. The rest of the cast is excellent; as his wife, Sally Mercer is as clever with the comeback, as cavalier, bitter and amused as any women married to Henry would have to be, while as his lover, Grace Gonglowski is more opulent, less verbal, less like him. Leonard Haas is sufficiently distraught and distrait and Peter Pryor makes vivid his small role as the belligerent under-educated Brodie. Ian Merrill Peakes as Billy, as the young, infatuated actor, can whiz in and out of accents and is splendid both when he's "acting" and when he's "not." As the briefly-appearing, ultra-wise daughter, Letitia Lange makes her professional debut a good one, getting some of the best lines ever written for a teenager.

The costuming (by Valerie Joyce), is, except for Charlotte's, puzzling; for such interesting, affluent and dramatic people, their clothes are remarkably tasteless and ill-fitting. The set by Daniel P. Boylen is nifty in a too-sleek Alex Katz-y sort of way, but the all- purpose table is irritatingly overworked. Hazel Bowers's skill as dialect coach is evident everywhere.

— Toby Zinman