Theatre in Review: A Man of No Importance (Classic Stage Company)

	Jim Parsons. Photo: Julieta Cervantes

Give John Doyle a musical and he immediately puts it on a diet. The director operates on the subtractive method, eliminating scenery, and, if possible, having the actors double as musicians. He takes a pair of shears to scripts, cutting scenes and numbers that, in his opinion, are blocking progress. Sometimes this method is damaging; I still mourn the excision of "Chrysanthemum Tea" from his otherwise lovely revival of Pacific Overtures. And sometimes his direction is so flat and presentational it might as well be a concert staging.

But sometimes this approach pays dividends, particularly when the material is a little bloated to begin with. That would be the case of A Man of No Importance, an achingly sincere piece that, at least in its 2002 debut, blew up its modest source material far out of proportion. Suri Krishnamma's lovely 1994 film, about a closeted gay bus conductor in 1960s Dublin, revels in the unsaid. (A single shot of Albert Finney, in the lead role, looking at the young man he silently adores, is worth ten pages of dialogue.) But, originally at least, a film about the love that dare not speak its name became a musical that explained itself to death. The trouble lay largely in Terrence McNally's book, although with song titles like "Love Who You Love," Lynn Ahrens' lyrics shouldered some of the blame. So exhaustive was their approach, which included conjuring the shade of Oscar Wilde, that the piece frequently tipped over into mawkishness.

Wilde still shows up from time to time at CSC. But, by trimming the show by forty-five minutes (including jettisoning the intermission), and working more by implication than speechmaking, Doyle has come up with version that is much lighter on its feet, more suffused with genuine feeling. He clarifies the intentions of McNally's book, which places the lead character's lonely dilemma inside a larger network of frustrated yearnings, covert adulteries, and unwanted pregnancies, all fostered by the stifling Irish-Catholic morality of the era.

In truth, Jim Parsons is a bit too young and fit to play Alfie, an aging eccentric and self-appointed aesthete who entertains his daily riders with poetry selections -- Wilde's "The Harlot's House" is a favorite -- and who pines, quietly, for a handsome bus driver. Alfie's plight is far more poignant if he appears to be eyeing middle age in the rear-view mirror, his chances for happiness looking increasingly bleak. But, in his stillness, Parsons captures Alife's bottled-up nature, a passion that, left so long unexpressed, can only turn to self-hatred. (Looking in the mirror, he says, heartbreakingly, "Why would someone care for you?") But he also conveys Alfie's wild enthusiasm for the theatre, expressed in the church dramatic society that he runs with an iron hand. It's a love too often divorced from reality, which explains his disastrous decision to put on Wilde's Salome, unleashing a storm of scandal in the parish and leaving himself open to exposure. (The idea of these working-class drabs taking on Wilde's perfumed erotica provides much of the show's humor.) If Parsons doesn't fully fit the role's dimensions, he works honestly and well.

The other principals are pretty much ideal. A. J. Shively's good looks and simmering energy are just right for Robbie, the bus driver, who hasn't a clue as to what Alfie wants from him; his handling of the foot-stomping "Streets of Dublin" -- the score's finest number -- provides an otherwise quiet musical with its biggest showstopper. Mare Winningham, her face a cross-hatch of worry lines, underplays beautifully as Lily, Alfie's disapproving sister, who senses the clock ticking on the chance for an independent life. Shereen Ahmed has a poignant dignity as Adele, the troubled new girl in town, who Alfie casts as Salome; she makes something special of the number "Princess," which hints at the stigma that caused her to flee her country village. Thom Sesma livens up the underwritten role of Alfie's nemesis, a pious butcher and theatrical ham, who'd like to help himself to Lily and take control of the drama group. His finest moment is the amusing "Going Up," an ode to the glories of amateur theatricals

Also making fine contributions are Alma Cuervo as a well-upholstered matron dreaming of her glory days as Peter Pan; Da'Von T. Moody as a mysterious stranger who sexually taunts Alfie; Mary Beth Peil as a proper old biddy improbably cast as Salome's Herodias; and William Youmans as a caustic widower ("If anyone on this bus is playing a 16-year-old virgin, I want to be first in line to buy a ticket for the comedy of the century") looking back with wonder at his happy marriage.

The production, as is Doyle's wont, features a largely bare stage with a handful of furniture pieces, but Ann Hould-Ward's costumes, a collection of wools and tweeds in a muted palette, strongly evokes the period. Adam Honoré's lighting alternates between understated looks and saturated colors as vivid as votive candles; his work goes a long way toward keeping the show moving fluidly. Sun Hee Kil's sound design is a little more overt (and artificial) than one normally gets at CSC, but it is a big improvement in intelligibility over previous musicals staged in this difficult space.

This production doesn't solve all the show's problems. Surely no Irish-Catholic pastor of the era would allow Salome -- a radioactive property in the eyes of the church - to be staged. Also, Stephen Flaherty's score, which effectively weaves several key melodies into a unified whole, is sometimes a little too self-consciously folkloric, as if he had seen Titanic a few too many times. Does nobody in this Dublin listen to The Beatles? Gerry and the Pacemakers? The local pop star Ruby Murray?

Still, in this trimmed-down version, McNally's tart wit crackles and the songs effectively lay bare a multitude of sorrows and longings. And if the finale, in which Alfie faces public exposure, might seem a little too neat, it does get at how the Irish, after years of fealty to the church, finally learned to think for themselves. To use the local argot, A Man of No Importance is a darlin' thing, and I hope Doyle's edit becomes the standard version. --David Barbour