Theatre in Review: And Away We Go (Pearl Theatre)Terrence McNally's love-hate-love affair with the theatre finds its latest expression in And Away We Go. The prolific playwright has written about sex, politics, religion, and family relationships, but one persistent preoccupation has been the joys, sufferings, and sheer tsuris experienced by stage folk in a world that often cares little for their efforts. He has articulated this theme in the name-dropping Broadway farce It's Only a Play; Master Class, about Maria Callas' all-encompassing pursuit of her muse; Dedication, or The Stuff of Dreams, a dark comedy set in a struggling regional theatre; and The Golden Age, a backstage drama about composer Vincenzo Bellini and his colleagues. The Lisbon Traviata, with its wildly dedicated opera fanatic, and A Man of No Importance, featuring a lead character who sublimates his sorrows in amateur theatricals, probably fall in this category, too. This time, McNally has taken on nothing more or less than all of theatre history -- or, at least, selected highlights; And Away We Go hopscotches from ancient Athens to the Globe Theatre in London, to 18th-century France, to the Moscow Art Theatre, and, in his most original gambit, to mid-'50s Miami, where, in an ill-considered Broadway tryout, Waiting for Godot, billed by its producer as "the laugh sensation of two continents," is bombing before bewildered audiences. One wonders if McNally had recently picked up a copy of Kaufman and Hart's little-known The Fabulous Invalid, a chronicle play of Broadway history that portrayed the theatre as nearly always dying, yet managing to reinvent itself in the nick of time. In any case, the playwright here gives the history format his own distinctive spin. McNally wisely avoids turning his play into a parade of great men and women, preferring to focus on those largely unsung workers who dedicate their lives to the theatre despite its many discontents. In Athens, the actors argue about the quality of masks, why masks are even necessary, and why only men may appear on stage. In London, Richard Burbage and his relatives are consumed with theatre gossip, ignoring Richard's wife, who keeps trying to announce her pregnancy. (James, Richard's father, even threatens to revive his solo show, Kings, Queens, and Miscreants.) In Versailles, 1789, a playwright named Christophe Durand (one of McNally's sly hat tips to a colleague) stages a hissy fit because the actors are paraphrasing his lines, the king objects to certain bits as seditious, and the understudy learns that she is about to get a starring part -- in the king's bedroom. On to Moscow and a first reading for a production of The Seagull, where the talk of creating a new realism on stage is tempered by the knowledge that the lead role is being taken by the countess who is bankrolling the production. In Miami, where Godot is ending its dispiriting run, Bert Lahr, the star, has locked himself in his dressing room, refusing to leave. ("Put some girls in it, call it Waiting for Gidget, and you got half a chance," comments one bitter participant.) Meanwhile, Peter, an understudy, hooks up with Kenny, a concessions worker with dreams of being a playwright. That first date proves to be the beginning of a lifetime together, and, years later, when Peter is dying, he and Kenny are visited by characters from all the other time periods. This is not the only fanciful device employed by McNally: Wandering through these scenes from ages past are members of a contemporary repertory company dedicated to the classics, which is facing various woes, most of them fiscal, leading to the elimination of a long-awaited production of King Lear. These sequences must have a peculiar resonance for the Pearl, a company dedicated to the classics, which last year suffered a fiscal crisis that required the postponement of, yes, And Away We Go. None of the individual scenes is particularly dramatic in itself; instead, McNally is more interested in drawing patterns across time, as his characters deal with uncomprehending and/or hostile audiences, money shortages, censorship, uncollaborative colleagues, and the constant need to leave tradition behind in search of new ways of expression. There are moments when one may miss McNally's glittering talent for zingers, so prevalent in many of the plays listed above and often absent here. Still, his observations are authentic, his sentiment feels honestly earned, and the cumulative effect is to make one appreciate all over again what a miracle any good production is, given the odds against it. And, a few dodgy French and Russian accents aside, the entire company -- consisting of four Pearl regulars and two newcomers -- delights under the direction of Jack Cummings III. Rachel Botchan is the eternal ingénue, wondering in ancient Greece why she can't be an actor and, in the '50s, assuring herself "Once I join Equity, everything will be so much easier," a line that got peals of knowing laughter at the performance I attended. Donna Lynne Champlin, something of a regular in Cummings' productions but new to the Pearl, shines as a wealthy board member who wants to immerse herself in the theatre and as Mrs. Bert Lahr, who, when it comes to theatrical disaster, has seen it all. (Staring down an outraged member of the Godot audience, she snarls, "What are you? A subscriber? You look like a subscriber.") Dominic Cuskern adds a touch of gravitas to each appearance, especially as the elderly James Burbage, reminiscing, "I played an entire season with the Black Plague." Also, Sean McNall is touching as Peter, the luckless understudy, and as an artistic director, who notes, "I am pledged to doing Shakespeare and Chekhov on a dime but not a nickel." Carol Schultz shines as a gimlet-eyed Greek matron who complains, "Plays are a diversion from the bad news from the Peloponnese," and as a grand lady of the French stage who drives her playwright up the wall by announcing, "I know the soul of my character, her deepest secrets. What are lines compared to the essence of the character we are playing?" Micah Stock is fine as the outraged recipient of these comments and also as a delivery boy who takes a dim view of Chekhov and artists who don't play their bills. It all unfolds on Sandra Goldmark's stunning set, a kind of rehearsal room cum storage space, with dozens of costumes, a gaggle of lighting units, and plenty of props hanging over the action. R. Lee Kennedy creates some gorgeous looks using sidelight, especially a moment in the Athens scene when everyone pauses to watch the action on stage and the set is filled with light from a setting sun. Kathryn Rohe's costumes and Michael Rasbury's sound design are equally solid. It has often seemed to me that plays about the problems of artists face a tough challenge in terms of audience interest, but time and again McNally has gotten around that problem. There are moments when And Away We Go may seem written a little too much from the insider's viewpoint -- how many will understand the reference to Gammer Gurton's Needle? -- but overall he has done it again, penning an unsentimental ode to the art form he has served so well for over four decades. See it and you'll never again say the words, "It's only a play."--David Barbour 
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