Theatre in Review: Master Class (Samuel J. Friedman Theatre) Will the real Maria Callas please stand up? It's a fair question; after all, we've had so many to choose from. Repeated viewings of Master Class over the years have revealed the remarkable way in which the role of Maria Callas, as conceived by playwright Terrence McNally, adapts itself to such a wide variety of actresses. Zoe Caldwell gave us a creature of impossible hauteur, handing out failing grades to the rest of the human race for its lack of talent, style, and sensitivity. Patti LuPone added a large dollop of camp humor and infused the character with an earthy sexuality; she turned Callas' second-act encounter with a young tenor into an exercise in sublimated eroticism. The eerily trim and composed Dixie Carter was a tragic mask come to life -- all passions spent, she seemed to be awaiting an end that would surely come soon. And, from the minute she walks on stage at the Samuel J. Friedman, it's clear that Tyne Daly has a vision of Callas that is all her own. Having pursued her art with unrivaled, possibly self-destructive, ferocity and having endured a private existence marked by monumental acts of selfishness and betrayal - both by her and against her-- Daly's Callas has become indistinguishable from the characters in her repertory. She's no longer quite human; instead, she has become an earthbound Fury who puzzles and frightens the mere mortals around her. Daly's Callas reveals her massively perverse temperament at the very beginning, when she enters to a tumultuous ovation, which she prolongs by the use of subtle gestures of gratefulness. The instant it is over, she is transformed from humble diva to imperious scold: "No applause. We're here to work." She nails all the script's big laughs, feigning modesty ("Forget all about me. Poof! I'm invisible."), shedding crocodile tears over her hated rival Joan Sutherland ("She did the best she could!"), and stealing focus with the skill of a cat burglar ("Look at me; I'm drinking water and I have presence.") Each of these laughs is accompanied by a warning glare at the audience, as if she cannot comprehend the rudeness of our behavior. "Never miss an opportunity to theatricalize," Callas tells a student - words that Daly has clearly taken to heart. The performance is no mere expert comic turn, however. Underneath the surface lurks a festering bitterness, as well as passions ready to flare at a moment's notice. Contemplating the fickleness of audiences, she says, "We bare our hearts and they say, 'Huh?'" Recalling her controversial, highly dramatic approach to her roles, she comments acidly, "They said they didn't like my sound; they didn't like my soul." She fully inhabits the two big arias in which she recalls her original triumph, against all odds, at La Scala, and later, the dissolution of her passionless marriage and her ultimately disastrous affair with Aristotle Onassis. All of which has left this Callas unable to deal with anything quotidian or ordinary; she has been made larger-than-life by her tumultuous existence, but it has also left her hollowed out, unable to respond to any emotion or desire that is less than soul-shattering. She comes alive when goading her students to pour everything they have into their performances, stalking each of them like some inner demon. Yet note how she instinctively recoils when one of them gratefully tries to take her hand. And note the basilisk stare - made up of equal parts condemnation, fury, and jealousy over their youth and talents - when one of them of disappoints her. Critics love to complain that Master Class is not historically accurate in its portrayal of Callas. But this is beside the point. McNally, one of New York's most famed opera buffs, knows all there is to known about Callas, and, had he wanted to write a biography, he surely would have done so. Instead, he uses a fictionalized version of the woman known as La Divina to meditate on the relation between art and life, and to wonder exactly where the pursuit of one's art becomes self-destructive. Intimate in style, Master Class is nevertheless a big play, filled with tantalizing, if unanswerable, questions, and it remains one of the playwright's finest achievements. Stephen Wadsworth's production is extremely well cast, including Alexandra Silber as a young sycophant who can barely get past her opening note without unleashing a torrent of criticism, and Garrett Sorenson as an eager tenor who isn't afraid to push back. The key supporting role, of a young soprano who challenges Callas' authority, goes to Sierra Boggess, who makes a most formidable antagonist. Wadsworth has also overseen a fine production design. Thomas Lynch's studio setting is dominated by an upstage wall that consists of acoustical paneling; the set performs remarkable tricks of scale when it opens up to become the stage at La Scala for Callas' flashbacks. David Lander's lighting shifts fluidly from a warm stage wash for the classroom scenes to dramatic sidelight for the big monologues. Martin Pakledinaz's costumes range from Callas' chic Chanel suit to Boggess' amusingly inappropriate evening gown. Jon Gottlieb's sound design seamlessly blends the sound of the real Callas into the action. Still, the thing to marvel at is the way Daly bends the role of Callas to her purposes, serving her talents and McNally's intentions in fresh and unexpected ways. Of all the ladies I've seen in the role, she may be the most formidable. If you see it, you'll know exactly what the term "monstre sacré" means.--David Barbour 
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