It's Only A Play

I must admit to being rather flattered by the depiction of theatre critics in Terrence McNally's theatrical farce It's Only a Play, currently being revived at the Midtown International Theatre Festival. In the show, a cross-section of people involved in mounting a new Broadway play wait for and discuss the reviews that can make or break their collaborative efforts.

I rather like this image. I can just imagine the cast of any of the off-off-Broadway productions I've covered huddled in a studio apartment, repeatedly clicking "reload" on BroadwayWorld.com to see if my review is up. They all await my opinion! Oh, the power! The power!!

*ahem* Well, okay, maybe not. But still, actors and directors and playwrights and producers do worry what we critics think, as our opinion can (in theory, anyway) sell or ruin a show. The critic (and, by proxy, the audience) does not see the many days and weeks and months of frustrating and exhausting work that go in to bringing a play from page to stage– we only see the finished product, and judge it with different eyes than those involved would.

Thus, as farces go, It's Only a Play is more thought-provoking than most, adding poignancy to the humor by giving us a glimpse into the souls of those whose work we are so quick to judge. After the opening night performance of a new Broadway play, the producer, playwright, leading lady, director, coat-check-boy (!), a critic (!!), and the playwright's best friend (and foe) quietly ditch the party to follow the reviews and gauge their success. While they wait and worry, they name-drop. They make in-jokes. They fret and analyze and reminisce about their work and the state of the theatre in general. And of course, this being a farce, all of their stress is for our amusement, and, for anyone who has ever been on the other side of the curtain, commiseration.

So the play, in and of itself, is candy for those of us who love theatre. This production, however, does not fully live up to the inspired lunacy of the script. Somewhat unevenly cast and directed, it still has plenty of heart, but not as many laughs as the script promises. Director John Capo occasionally loses the frantic rhythm inherent to farce, and the comic timing is often shaky. The actors are equally uneven: At the opening-night performance I saw, Sheila Mart, as the leading lady seeking a comeback, did not seem to have her lines down completely, while Cynthia Henderson's delightfully silly performance as the naive producer was physically hindered by what looked like terribly uncomfortable shoes. Betty Hudson gave a brief but memorably funny turn as a theatre-loving cab driver, and Frederick Hamilton owned every moment he was onstage as the neurotic, fey playwright. Michael Baldwin was wonderfully charming as the star-struck coat-check boy fresh from Kansas, and Mr. Capo himself served as director both of the play and the play-within-the-play, giving a scathingly brash performance of Gen X angst and ennui. If the young director's skills might need some time to ripen to their full potential, his talent as a comic actor is already quite impressive.

But the problems, really, are minimal, and will probably be smoothed out as the actors settle into their roles. Ultimately, and fortunately, the giddy joy of the farce rises above all, leaving plenty of wit and pathos to amuse, entertain, and enlighten.