Manuscript: Writing Wrongs

I'll say this about Paul Grellong's new off-Broadway play, Manuscript; it held my interest. Despite its flaws -- and there are many of them -- I was never bored during the intermission-less ninety minutes and was generally interested to see what the playwright would come up with next. Which leads me to believe that, although I wouldn't exactly recommend this one, there may be an audience that would get a kick out of it. They would have to be willing to accept some pretty unbelievable plot points and they would certainly have to find the author's humor far funnier than I did, but perhaps there's a young society of hip intelligentsia who would find it somewhat amusing. Then again, they may also find it somewhat insulting. Tough call.

There's a lot I can't tell you about Manuscript's plot. This is one of those plays where the twists and turns begin early, so I wouldn't want to ruin anyone's chance of being surprised. (If you're really dying to know the full plot, drop me an email.) What I can tell you is that it deals with a trio of Ivy Leaguers; none of whom I suspect would be particularly fun at a kegger. David (Pablo Schreiber) is a Harvard undergrad and aspiring novelist. Despite suggestions of a modest upbringing, he lives alone on the top floor of a Brooklyn brownstone owned by his parents. (The unit set by David Swayze is a terrific assemblage of organized clutter.) It's winter vacation and his best friend Chris (Jeffrey Carlson) is visiting from Yale with his girlfriend Elizabeth (Marin Ireland), a hot young novelist who was published before finishing high school and, after a first book which made her into a celebrity, is suffering from writer's block in trying to top it.

This is where the complications begin, involving an unrequited crush, a case of literary larceny and the only known manuscript of a recently-finished novel by a world famous and recently deceased author. There are matters of ethics, revenge, blackmail, lust and pro wrestling. The ingredients are all there but the batter never rises, mostly due to the dialogue.

While in New York, Chris and Elizabeth are attending a few formal functions. This gives the author an excuse to have the couple dressed in evening wear throughout the play. It seems that Grellong is trying to write a comedy of Noel Coward-ish sophistication and although his dialogue has all the rhythm and style of clever banter, the content is primarily of pseudo-intelligence.

"I feel like Rimsky-Korsekov is the poor man's Prokofiev.", Elizabeth airily pronounces after attending a concert.

"Pro wrestling is the only innovative form of modern dance we have left.", David teaches Elizabeth after she calls his action figures "dolls". What follows is a monologue which, although entertaining, proves that that although the character knows much about pro wrestling, he knows little of modern dance.

Are we supposed to be laughing at how stupid these people are, compared with how brilliant they perceive themselves to be? Are the lines themselves supposed to be funny? Did someone with such a dull wit really write a best-seller?

A character accused of acting unethically snaps, "Go tell Randy Cohen." Even if the entire audience knew that Randy Cohen writes The Ethicist weekly for the New York Times Magazine, such a line seems more like the author showing off his knowledge than an actual attempt at humor or a legitimate character response.

But once the big payoff occurs, late in the proceedings, it seems there was a bit of a play-within-the-play aspect involved. So maybe that was the reason for the parade of inane quips. Perhaps these were clever people after all who for plot reasons were just playing dumb. Or maybe I'm just over thinking.

Marin Ireland, the actress who was so captivating earlier this year playing the title role in Sabina, is now stuck with portraying what could wind up being the most annoying character of the New York theatre season. Her overt perkiness barely masks such a dimwittedly self-centered nature that you'll be tempted to make spitballs out of your Playbill and throw them at her. Especially after lines like, "I know how the publishing business works. I've been in it for a year." I'm tempted to believe the author based the character on some ex-lover who screwed him over, so hatefully is she drawn. And although costume designer Sara Tosetti has her looking stunning in a green floor-length gown, she later dresses her in an unflattering little black dress that'll momentarily distract you from the play as you try and figure where her waist went.

Jeffrey Carlson, generally known to New York audiences for playing androgynous and flamboyant characters with a Tallulah-like deadpan, is much more subdued here. Looking dashing as a junior bon vivant in his tuxes, Carlson gives a smart, casual performance that's very appealing.

Pablo Schreiber, saddled with a thick Brooklyn accent and a bad haircut, also does a fine job as the passionate "regular guy."

Bob Balaban's direction is at its best when he pushes the material into a screwball comedy pace. Indeed, there is often a feeling of comedy in the air, but very little material to inspire laughter. As it stands now, Manuscript seems more like an interesting early draft.