Theatre in Review: Dying for It (Atlantic Theater)

	Joey Slotnick, C. J. Wilson. Photo: Ahron Foster

"You can't tell that joke! Communism isn't funny!" So warns one of the characters in Dying for It. It's a line that resonates sadly with the career of Nikolai Erdman, the Soviet-era Russian playwright, whose 1928 farce The Suicide has been adapted by Moira Buffini. As it happens, Communism is funny about half the time in Dying for It; the other fifty percent is devoted to some rather leaden plot complications. Serious students of the theatre won't want to miss this opportunity to experience at least a version of Erdman's legendary, rarely produced work. (It was last seen in its original form on Broadway in 1980, in a production starring Derek Jacobi; it lasted 60 performances.) For everyone else, it's a judgment call; if you don't mind having your laughs separated by some pronounced longeurs, and you enjoy seeing an ace cast of theatre pros going through their paces, this may prove to be an acceptable evening out.

Given the premise of The Suicide, it's amazing that Erdman ever thought the play would be produced. (It was cancelled just before its opening and Erdman spent the next several decades in exile from Moscow, working in provincial theatres and scratching out a living writing screenplays for children's films with titles like Jack Frost.) The protagonist, Semyon Semyonovich Podeskalnikov, is one of life's losers, reduced to living with his wife in the stairwell of a dilapidated apartment house. As rendered by Walt Spangler, it is a magnificent vision of decay, a gloomy, colorless warren marked by peeling paint and an oppressively large stairway. In one of the more delectable moments, someone exclaims, "Look! Life is beautiful," pulling open a curtain to reveal a set of windows covered over with grime. (If nothing else, the play's depiction of Soviet Russia as a teeming slum would surely have been enough to get Stalin's seal of disapproval.)

The reason for Semyon's above-average poverty? "I have no work in this worker's paradise," he frets. "I have betrayed the revolution." Depressed, he hides out under his bed, sending his wife (and chief breadwinner), Masha, into a tizzy: "He's going to off himself," she cries, using a verb I associate with the 1960s. Before long, Semyon decides that -- at least in theory -- suicide isn't such a bad idea. Word spreads like wildfire and soon he is beset by a host of opportunists, each of whom wants to appropriate the poor man's death. "There are some things living people cannot say," counsels a disaffected intellectual, who wants Semyon to leave behind a note blaming the regime. An Orthodox priest wants to frame Semyon's death as a parable of the consequences of rejecting Christ. A local floozy wants his death expressed as the ultimate romantic gesture. The agendas multiply like cockroaches and soon a teeming crowd is milling outside, waiting for news of Semyon's end.

There are a decent number of laughs scattered throughout; an interlude in which Semyon tries to make his fortune by becoming a maestro of the tuba packs some fairly potent chuckles, as do various stray comments about the sordid facts of daily life under Stalin's regime. But once the pattern is established, it can only repeat itself, to diminishing returns; watching each newcomer attempt to manipulate Semyon, with basically the same outcome each time, gradually grows tedious. There's a nice twist after Semyon flees his home to do the fatal deed, but there's no getting around the fact that this is the material for a comic sketch that has been stretched awkwardly over two hours. It doesn't help that Joey Slotnick, a fine character actor, is slightly miscast as Semyon; the role calls for a real clown, who can bring the character's doltish tendencies -- and his all-too-malleable nature -- to comic life. Slotnick has his moments but he doesn't provide the larger-than-life personality needed to be the center of this cracked universe.

However, under the direction of Neil Pepe, nearly everyone else makes the most of their sometimes lean opportunities. Jeanine Serralles has a firm grasp of comic style as the alternately shrewish and grief-stricken Masha; her ability to leap between these two states at a moment's notice is one of the production's chief attractions. Mary Beth Peil underplays deliciously as Masha's practical mother, especially when serving up "chicken-style stew," which is in fact full of rodents. Mia Barron is a welcome presence as a gimlet-eyed tavern owner, as is C. J. Wilson as a goatish neighbor who goes into business selling lottery tickets related to Semyon's death. There are fine contributions also from Robert Stanton as the unhappy intellectual ("You must shoot yourself as a responsible member of society!"), Clea Lewis as the loose and lusty Kiki (one of her ex-lovers refers to her body "the supreme Soviet"), and Peter Maloney, full of bluster and lurid visions of hell, as the clergyman. Ben Beckley, a new face, makes a good impression as a neighbor with Peeping Tom tendencies. Caught spying on Masha in the bathroom, he defends himself with some asperity, saying, "I am looking through this keyhole from a Marxist point of view!" (That's a line worthy of a Billy Wilder comedy.)

The rest of the design team delivers, as well. David Weiner lights Spangler's hellish set first with a chilling morning sunlight and, later, with a warm incandescent look, ostensibly created by lanterns, for a party that gives Semyon his send-off. The costumes, by Suttirat Larlarb and Moria Clinton, are suitable for each character, and, for the ladies, come with true period silhouettes. Ben Truppin-Brown's sound design includes such effects as tolling bells, gunshots, and the sound of offstage crowds. The original music, by Josh Schmidt, is played live on a violin and accordion.

Having seen The Suicide only once, 35 years ago, in a very different, highly stylized production, I cannot say whether the problems are present in Erdman's original text or if Buffini -- whose play Gabriel was a seriously underrated offering at Atlantic a few seasons back -- has compounded the difficulty. I suspect the former. Dying for It basically consists of one scene repeated several times with variations that don't provide enough variety.

Interestingly, after two hours of farcical complications, Dying for It arrives at a brusque ending that you won't have seen coming. It's a real shocker, and it concludes the comedic proceedings with a sting, effectively choking off all laughter. If only there were just a little more laughter to stifle.--David Barbour