The Cottage Broadway Reviews

The Cottage may look like a throwback to the tony sauciness of Noël Coward’s plays in the 1930s—in a nod to the Master, Beau’s secretary is named Mrs. Worthington—but it is broader in character and characters, and less sophisticated in language. Some of the play’s biggest laughs come from outright spoofery of its period and genre, like a running joke that finds cigarettes and lighters concealed in unexpected parts of Paul Tate dePoo III’s well-stuffed set. (These cigs rarely stay lit for long; they are alway being stubbed out in some dramatic gesture.) Amid the old-fashioned trappings, Rustin nestles a welcome modern sensibility to the plot’s skirmishes of the sexes; Sylvia’s dissatisfaction hints at the growing agency of post-Victorian Englishwomen. While the architecture of the plot is solid, what really keeps The Cottage up is the comedic industry of its cast. Directed by Jason Alexander, a seasoned hand at classic timing, the actress leap gamely into their funny business. McCormack’s vain Beau is smoothly caddish and twittish; Moffat, leading with his chin, has some inspired physical horseplay, and Steingold packs a lot of power into her small frame. And Bundy, who looks smashing in Sydney Maresca’s costumes, holds the play’s center together with considerable appeal. It’s sex, sure, but more than that: It’s charm.

The play is a sensational, feminist twist on a classic British period drama that features knockout performances, melodramatic reveals, and some seriously outrageous one-liners. If home is where the heart is, then The Cottage is where the mind's deepest, darkest, and most salacious secrets go to fight and frolic in the fresh air.

The Cottage is at its best when at its lightest. A few philosophical tangents—Dierdre and Sylvia discussing “varying degrees” of love, Beau and Marjorie debating the merits of marriage (Beau: “In my opinion, faithfulness is an entirely separate matter from marriage”)—drag down the otherwise snap-crackle pace that director Jason Alexander (of TV’s Seinfeld) has established. And the intermission takes a bit of air out of the proceedings.

McCormack hams it up expertly as the haughty Beau. Cooper slow-burns until Marjorie gets a moment to let it all rip. Broadway newcomer Moffat steps up as the klutzy charmer. Best of the bunch is Bundy, who makes every comedic line and pose gleefully giggle-inducing. In the end, The Cottage is about Sylvia opening her eyes to her relationships with men. But the moment that sticks out is the hilarious sight of Sylvia plugging her nose with an old-timey phone receiver. Moments like that make The Cottage a Broadway funhouse.

And if you are in the mood for matchstick penis jokes, more gag props than a Coney Island funhouse and a ensemble of cheerfully over-the-top players contorting body and soul to squeeze every last laugh out of Sandy Rustin’s ridiculous yarn, then the director Jason Alexander just rescued you from the sweaty streets outside and poured some buck’s fizz into your prosaic existence.

I suppose it’s when we least expect them that feelings hit the hardest, so a bedroom farce in the style of Noël Coward becomes a likely candidate for a brief, biting moment of meditation on true, disinterested love. Sandy Rustin’s The Cottage, which has been making its rounds through regional theatres before landing at Broadway’s Hayes Theatre, is a well-crafted comedy with simple, sturdy laughs. Directed by Jason Alexander and set in the 1923 British countryside, it often feels like the ‘90s sitcom, or 2010s prestige, version of that—if Coward oversaw the unlikely consummation of Seinfeld and Downton Abbey. The laughs are there, thanks to a comedically fine-tuned cast, but, befitting a bed-hopping plot, a tender, surprising altruism keeps them on your face.

For all the recent politicizing of the queer community’s lack of moral decency, The Cottage, which opens at Broadway’s Hayes Theater on July 24, is having a great time with extramarital merriment, heavy drinking, and more cigarette smoking than even the Marlboro Man could endure. Playwright Sandy Rustin (whose stage adaptation of the film Clue is one of the most-produced plays in the U.S., according to her biography) delivers a period farce set in 1923 pastoral England and stars one of the early aughts’ most famous gay-for-pay actors, Eric McCormack. Jason Alexander, who played the famously neurotic George Costanza on Seinfeld for nine seasons, directs a seasoned cast that climbs an uphill battle to excavate witty banter from a predictable plot that rarely stays ahead of the audience.

The Cottage is not a dud; its momentary outbreaks of hilarity thankfully break up stretches of conversation about characters’ tangled pasts, and restatements of the comic setups in front of us. But, as wittily complicated as those summaries can sound, we’ve already got it. It’s been unpacked for us in the moment, over and over again. If The Cottage isn’t a farce, what is it? This critic couldn’t tell you, and—as presented—the production doesn’t seem to know the answer either.

The most interesting thread of The Cottage involves Rustin’s trying to work against the knee-jerk sexism of the genre as Sylvia slowly discovers that her happiness shouldn’t depend on the men around her. Fittingly for the 1920s setting, Rustin even weaves in a few references to the women’s-suffrage movement. But because the characters, for the sake of the comedy, have already become so abstract, Rustin’s points remain abstract too. As is true of so much in the play, you can see the turn coming as soon as Rustin starts laying out hints about it. Sylvia’s burgeoning consciousness arrives just in time to help usher in a tidy resolution of the plot, one in which almost everything (marriages, rediscovered romances, property ownership) gets sorted out. Like a lot of The Cottage, it all fits together pleasantly and too neatly. You’d think, or hope, that upending the status quo would involve a bit more mess.

Even at its considerable best, the show is little more than a summertime distraction, but without its luxurious casting and ultra-polished design, “The Cottage” would seem like little more than a summer stock import or a decades-long-overdue transfer from the English stage.

You miss the old farces. There isn’t much of the hiding-in-closets fun that has long been the meat of similar comedies such as “Boeing-Boeing” and Coward’s “Present Laughter.” That’s why the amped-up energy is so jarring — for the most part, these characters simply stand together and yell. That tried-and-true farce structure — low-key witty first act, madcap second, wrapup third — is abandoned by Rustin in favor of high-energy antics from start to finish, much like Broadway’s 2021 play “POTUS” that similarly ran out of gas halfway through. Steingold, as the loopy Dierdre, runs away with “The Cottage.”

But the humor is so devoid of reality that the laughs become increasingly strained. The plot twists have little impact since we’re so little invested in the characters or situations, and with its two-hour running time the evening has the feel of an elongated Carol Burnett Show sketch (Harvey Korman and Burnett would have made a great Beau and Sylvia, with Tim Conway as Clarke and Vicki Lawrence as the pregnant Marjorie. But it would have been 8-10 minutes, tops). It’s hard to see exactly who The Cottage is for, since even a first-class Coward revival would have a tough go of it on Broadway without major star power. It’s a play whose ideal audiences have by now passed on to become blithe spirits themselves.

This is a paint-by-numbers sex farce, with parameters that do not extend beyond the obvious: heterosexual marriage is restrictive for all, unreasonable for many, and, oh, so thrilling to transgress. The forbidden-fruit pleasures that “The Cottage” tries to pass off as a feast, in a lavish production directed by Jason Alexander, are familiar, superficial and fleeting.

But to suggest something is not to achieve it, and though “The Cottage” operates like a farce it only rarely achieves a farce’s liftoff. That’s when the pressure on the characters becomes so intense that it initiates a kind of verbal and physical fission.

Sometimes a bio in the Playbill is an apt warning for what you’re about to see. For instance, the Playbill for the new comedy “The Cottage” includes a bio of the playwright Sandy Rustin. It reads, “Her adaptation of the film ‘Clue’ is one of the most-produced plays in the U.S.” Yes, there is a world of lousy theater beyond New York City, and “The Cottage,” which opened Monday on Broadway at the Hayes Theatre, is destined for it.