Late-June In Manhattan: Hot Days, Cool Plays

By DUNCAN STRAUSS

The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?--This constituted the most exhilarating, thought- provoking evening of theater I’ve experienced in many a moon. It was densely packed with ideas and issues, yet so gracefully constructed that it was also plenty loose and often-hilarious, and I thought about it almost hourly for days afterward. Not bad for a play partly about bestiality. True, that is the central conceit on which the action pivots--a man, Martin (Bill Pullman) is having an affair with a goat and is forced to confess and discuss his livestock liaison with his wife, Stevie (Mercedes Ruehl). Now in the hands of just about any playwright you’d care to mention, this tale would probably have a difficult time transcending the perverse, prurient zone of a guy boffing a goat. But the writer behind “The Goat” is Edward Albee, who presumably drew not only upon his gargantuan talent and skill, but also his vast experience--hell, he won a Tony for writing “Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf” 40 years ago, and has since added several more Tonys and Pulitzer Prizes to his collection, including a Tony this year for “The Goat.” In Albee’s captivatingly capable hands, the play, by turns, plunges headlong into--or obliquely taps softly on--marriage, adultery, sex, sexuality, friendship, spirituality, God, tragedy (in all senses of the term), comedy (ditto), family values, and more. In fact, I suspect this show is especially Rorschach- ian in the way “Goat”-goers would be struck to varying degrees by these areas, including not at all, and altogether different ones. Albee is aided and abetted in this complex task by an extraordinary four-person cast, led by the astonishing Ruehl. The Golden Theatre, 252 W. 45th Street. Tickets: (212) 239-6200

Ricky Jay On The Stem--An hour or so after this seeing this show, I was trying to explain Ricky Jay to someone who had never heard of him and, in doing so, realized that it’s extremely challenging--if not impossible--to come up with a description that does Jay justice. For much the same reason he’s hard to explain, Ricky Jay delivers an immensely novel and exciting show--there is no one like him, no one who even comes close to doing what he does. Yes, he’s a magician, though that’s akin to saying Tiger Woods is a golfer. But he’s a master illusionist--not in that slick, over-the-top David Copperfield TV spectacle way--but in a way that ranges from sleight-of-hand with a deck of cards two feet away from you, to effects that are transcendent in their elegance while leaving you at least equally agape in disbelief. But other qualities that further distinguish Jay include that he is an exceptionally literate and compelling raconteur, and on a very related note, he is a scholar and collector of great depth and sophistication. He plumbs these wells of knowledge far more deeply and frequently in this show than in his previous one-man offering, “Ricky Jay And His 52 Assistants”--also a masterpiece, but as the name suggests, firmly focused on his unbelievable ability with a deck of cards. “On The Stem” is vintage lingo for Broadway, and the show involves Jay guiding us through the history of that area, and some of that era’s more noteworthy performers, con men, sideshows, freakshows and other colorful operators and operations. But this fascinating narrative spiel constitutes connective tissue for a large handful of mind- blowing illusions. It’s said that these Jay solo shows are the only projects David Mamet directs that he did not write and even if it’s not entirely true, given the level of language and verbal sophistication, potent prestidigitation, and deftly-delivered surprises that Jay presents over the two hours, it is entirely believable. Second Stage Theatre, 307 W. 43rd Street. (212) 246-4422

Topdog/Underdog--Two guys talking. Not just any two guys, but brothers. And not just talking, for that matter. But stripped to its essence, that’s what “Topdog/Underdog” is. But taken in the other direction--that essence, fully fleshed out by the deep and dazzling poetic material playwright Suzan-Lori Parks applies to the creation of the two brothers, as well as the highly-rhythmic crackling dialogue that zips between them--that’s where this play enters singular terrain, and probably chief among the reasons it was awarded this year’s Pulitzer Prize for Drama. The play is at once tightly focused on these brothers, played by Mos Def and Jeffrey Wright--we see only this pair for the entire two-plus hours’ running time--and a huge, sprawling, ambitiously-rich tale; one that travels into the darker corridors of intense sibling rivalry and a tortured family history including abandonment, not to mention racial issues, internal power struggles and the powder keg of unresolved, long-simmering anger. With this kind of thematic heft, with Parks aggressively going after such big game, it might seem odd that the brothers names are Booth and Lincoln. A microscopic and misplaced gag? Not at all. As it turns out, a humongous portion of the play-- symbolically, thematically, actually--is rooted in those fraternal monikers. In fact, if someone were looking to nitpick about “Topdog/Underdog”--and I’m not; I adored this play--such a nitpicker could complain that the brothers’ names and surrounding details telegraph the dramatic ending all too inescapably. But what Parks otherwise does in fashioning this fiery fable from the Booth/Lincoln dynamic and other topical strands winds up fairly wide, but really runs deep. I’ll bet I’m not the first--and I’ll lay equal money I won’t be the last--to note the significant parallels between “Topdog/Underdog” and “True West.” Not bad company to keep. That phrase could also apply to the two actors: The highly experienced and accomplished Wright portrays Lincoln, while Booth is expertly played by Mos Def--a truly inspired casting choice; while this is the rapper’s Broadway debut, he’s been acting since he was a little kid, and he’s explosively stellar. More to the point, perhaps, the chemistry between these two is near perfect, quite convincing. Like they’re brothers. Ambassador Theatre, 219 W. 49th Street. (212) 239-6200

Urinetown, The Musical--I wouldn’t say I hate musicals, exactly, but few things short of family ties or gunpoint could lure me to one. I am a pretty passionate music fan, of intensely catholic tastes, but musicals--well, many (including some of the most successful ones) often strike me as woefully thin on book, woefully overwrought on

music, with a squad of too-happy, too-toothy performer laboring mightily to muscle the proceedings into woefully over-the-top territory. Among the vibrant virtues of the musical “Urinetown” is that its creators (and cast) apparently feel much the same way, and have set out to spawn an enterprise that has it both ways--lampoon the Broadway musical with refreshing, irony and wit while being a Broadway musical that delivers a meaty, fine, amusing book and wonderful and songs, propelled by a superb, supremely-talented cast who seem to get everything just right. This dark yellow tale of a nefarious capitalist, Caldwell B. Cladwell (John Cullum, familiar to many as Holling Vincour on “Northern Exposure”) and his plot to exploit the city’s drought by implementing a pay-per-void scheme is both anchored and narrated by Officer Lockstock, played irresistibly by Jeff McCarthy, whose regular-guy looks mask deadpan, zany absurdism--he’s long-lost kin of “Saturday Night Live” marvels Phil Hartman and Will Ferrell. Too, it’d be wrong not to mention Spencer Kayden, an actress with a similar gift for evenhandedly rendering this inspired silliness as the scruffy, philosophical Little Sally, who in the play’s first moments, earnestly replies to Lockstock’s introductory remarks about “Urinetown” that it’s “a bad subject for a musical, and so is its title.” Over the next two-plus hours, one comes to adore Little Sally--and see how thoroughly wrong she was. The Henry Miller. 124 W. 43rd Street. (212) 239-6200

Fortune’s Fool--This may be one of those quintessential instances of an actor (well, two in this case) turning in such extraordinary performances that rather, than hitting that optimal groove of great cast dovetailing with great play, Alan Bates and Frank Langella are so impressive and excellent that we become increasingly aware that Ivan Turgenev’s piece (as adapted by Mike Poulton) is a good deal less so. You wouldn’t have to be an expert in pre-Chekhovian Russian literature to occasionally think “Hey Ivan, can we get more plotting and less plodding?”-- especially in Act Two, where everyone deals somewhat uneventfully with the events and revelations spilled, as it were, in Act One. Let’s just say Vassily Semyonitch Kuzovkin (Bates), an impoverished man who’s been allowed to live for decades at the country estate where “Fool” takes place, is urged to booze and blab excessively by wealthy, snobby, devious neighbor Flegont Alexandrovitch Tropatchov (Langella),

culminating in Kuzovkin revealing a monumental secret at the Act One curtain. The intermission was a particularly welcome opportunity to ponder that news, but also to try absorbing the electrifying, two-pronged tour de force of acting unleashed by Langella and Bates. Talk about two amazing actors operating at the height of their powers--well, they each won a Tony for this work, Bates for Leading Actor, Langella for Featured Actor. These guys were so breathtakingly good, it’s likely many in the house wouldn’t have been inclined to notice (or care) that the rest of the cast seemed unexceptional and the production couldn’t be called crisp. Much can be explained--or, indeed, compensated for--by the top-heavy virtuosity, but it’s a surprising pity that these chinks weren’t shored up by the director you’d certainly expect to: Arthur Penn. Still, anyone who cares about acting should endeavor to see Bates in this role, if not this production. Music Box, 239 W. 45th Street. (212) 239-6200

Morning’s At Seven--More by fate than design, this was a particularly apt play to occupy the final slot of our short but saturated spree--downshifting from theater- going overdrive somehow seemed smoother in the wake of this soft and pastoral piece revolving around four sisters and the men in their lives. (In this case, that variously means husbands, sons, brother in laws.) “Mornings At Seven” is set in a small mid-Western town, and more specifically, in the backyards of the two houses where three of the sisters reside.(The set design--two nearly identical, gorgeous, inviting Victorian houses--is remarkable, as is the lighting, which perfectly projects the warmth and complements the mood of this familial fable.) None of this is to suggest that the play is a dud or weak. Not at all. It is gentle and simple, especially compared with most of the plays discussed before this one. But it is an engaging story, spanning just two days but covering a lifetime of family history, relationships and roles, primarily among the four sisters, who are in their 60s and 70s. But if the characters are old, and the material feels a bit old--director Daniel Sullivan, whose name is virtually synonymous with theatrical excellence, chose not to introduce any contemporary elements to this 1939 work--this is still an entirely pleasurable and rather rewarding way to spend a coupla hours, thanks in no small measure to the ensemble cast that includes Piper Laurie, Frances Sternhagen, Buck Henry, Elizabeth Franz, William Biff McGuire and Julie Hagerty. I tried to add up the Tony, Oscar, Emmy, Obie, Drama Desk and other awards and nominations this cast has collectively earned--but the numbers are so monstrous, I lost count a couple of times before giving up. It’s a joy to watch these old pros work with, and in some instances, against each other and before you know it, like responding to a friendly beckoning finger, you’re delicately pulled into the center of “Mornings At Seven.” And, really, you’re glad to be there: It’s an interesting, lovely place, and proved to be a very soothing way to make our Broadway exit. Lyceum Theatre, 149 W 45th Street. (212) 239-6200