Theatre in Review: Sylvia (Cort Theatre)In Sylvia, A.R. Gurney explores the eternal triangle: man, woman, and dog. A domestic farce about a Manhattanite who solves his midlife crisis by bonding with the rambunctious stray pooch he finds wandering in Central Park, this is hardly typical fare from Gurney, who has spent the last four decades charting the decline of the Northeast's WASP aristocracy with martini-dry wit; Sylvia is so light it practically needs to be tethered to the ground. But this kind of helium-filled foolery, if skillfully written, can provide, in the words of Walter Kerr, "a playground for actors." That's the case here, as a quartet of skilled comedians, under the ultra-smooth direction of Daniel Sullivan, make the most of the considerable opportunities provided them by the author. Leading the way, albeit at the end of a leash, is Annaleigh Ashford as the title character, a sassy, opinionated, and altogether articulate canine who barges into the life of Greg, an investment banker. Within minutes of their meeting, Sylvia pronounces Greg her "god," launching into a chorus of "Nearer My God to Thee." (It is Gurney's conceit that Sylvia can communicate verbally with Greg and his wife, Kate, although the full range of her intellect remains unclear. Sylvia tends to drift off when Greg launches into one of his meaning-of-it-all speeches, but she is perfectly capable of arguing to Kate, who doesn't want any animals around, that a dog is a preferable substitute for a young mistress or sports car, those other expressions of middle age angst.) Cleopatra in her infinite variety has nothing on this pooch, whether she is making like Mae West, colonizing a sofa, launching into an obscenity-laden tirade against a nearby feline, or, accused of leaving a puddle in the living room, frostily replying, "I won't dignify that with an answer." And, when faced with the possibility of being left alone for the evening, in a shameless attempt at breaking hearts, she burst into a soulful rendition of Cole Porter's "Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye." Ashford is one of the more inventive comic actresses around, and the role of Sylvia gives her something she can really sink her canines into. She is also lucky in her selection of playmates. Matthew Broderick is exceptionally well cast as Greg, who, glassy-eyed with boredom at work, is enchanted to have been adopted by this strange creature. In the face of the disapproving Kate, he becomes Sylvia's full-time apologist, playing hooky from his job to spend the afternoon with her, beaming when she performs the simplest dog trick, and sighing like a frustrated lover because he knows nothing about her past. (When Sylvia, in heat, becomes the most popular girl in the Central Park dog run, he also bitterly denounces her as a slut, accidentally revealing the depths of his attachment.) As Kate, who is thrilled to be living in the city after years in the suburbs, free of children and back on the job as a teacher, Julie White offers a symphonic display of frustrations -- burying her face in the sofa to stifle a scream, facing off on all fours against Sylvia, and announcing, wonderingly, "I never thought I could hate anyone -- except Nixon. But now I hate Sylvia." Good as they are, the evening is nearly pocketed by Robert Sella in a trio of roles -- as a fellow dog lover with an array of crackpot theories about pets and spouses, as an Upper East Side socialite made apoplectic when Sylvia makes a nose dive for her crotch, and as a sexually ambiguous marriage counselor who invites each patient to project a gender identity onto him/her. Under Sullivan's blessedly light touch, the saga of Sylvia unfolds as a series of comic sketches and vaudeville routines, with Greg's infatuation mounting in tandem with Kate's fury, until the moment comes when he must choose between the woman and the pet he loves. As befits this artfully cartooned fable, David Rockwell's set design has the charm of an illustrated book, with its richly colored depiction of Central Park in the summer, into which flies sets depicting Greg and Kate's living room , an airport waiting area, and the marriage counselor's office. Japhy Weideman's lighting casts a sunny glow over the action. Ann Roth's costumes have a sharp eye for the styles of the mid-'90s, when the play is set; also, she and the wig and makeup designer, Campbell Young Associates, play no small role in helping Sella create a distinct identity for each of his characters. Peter Fitzgerald's sound design provides some jazzy musical accompaniment via piano, drum, and bass, along with such scene-setting effects as birdsong and barking dogs. For all its calculated silliness, Sylvia is, one suspects, as much a personal work as any other Gurney play. This becomes clear in the finale, which offers a fast forward to reveal Sylvia's ultimate fate; it's a touching realization of the melancholy fact that the animals we love are almost certain not to outlast us. (Gurney, who is never sentimental, allows Kate to remain allergic to Sylvia's harms to the very end.) A final video montage, paying tribute to a variety of beloved animals, may just bring a tear to your eye. Anyone looking for a solid example of that most endangered of species, the smart boulevard comedy, should consider adopting Sylvia for an evening's entertainment. -- David Barbour 
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