Theatre in Review: Final Follies (Cherry Lane)/Suddenly (HERE)

	Top: Colin Hanlon and Rachel Nicks. Photo: James Leynse. Bottom: Henry Fin Berry, Phoebe Dunn, Brendan Walsh. Photo: Victor Llorente.

Over the years, Primary Stages has done A. R. Gurney proud, presenting exceptionally fine productions of such peerless high comedies as Indian Blood, Buffalo Gal, and Black Tie. Alas, the streak comes to an end with this trio of one-acts, which include the last work by Gurney, who died a little over a year ago. If Final Follies proves anything, it is that the one-act form wasn't the playwright's métier; also, two of the aforementioned pieces are rather noticeably showing their age. Gurney's best plays chart, with unerring accuracy and melancholy wit, the decline of this country's Northeastern ruling class over the last several decades. These offerings consist of thin premises, lame jokes, and nothing much in the way of payoff.

Final Follies, the author's farewell piece, focuses on Nelson, the black sheep of a distinguished family, whose members cling to such petrified traditions as church on Sunday, cocktail hours, and debutante balls. "You know what we're really talking about here," Nelson says. "The waning of WASP culture." It's a shocking line, because Gurney was rarely this direct, and because he professed a deep hatred of the term "WASP." At least Nelson's relatives have jobs; he has failed in one position after another, each of which was arranged by his wealthy grandfather. As the play begins, he arrives at an office devoted to the making of "discreet adult videos which have therapeutic value." Clutching a copy of the Village Voice -- we'll pause for a second to mourn its passing -- he announces he is applying to be an actor in such productions. After a cursory once-over by Tanisha, the attractive young office manager, he is hired -- without so much as an STD test, let alone a contract or a waiver. Surprisingly, he becomes an overnight star.

That's pretty much all that happens in Final Follies, aside from some strenuous flirting between Nelson and Tanisha. (This isn't even the first time that a Gurney hero has joined the porn industry; something similar happens in the 1978 comedy The Middle Ages.) Walter, Nelson's jealous brother, gets wind of what is going on, and, hoping to get Nelson disinherited, shows the video to their doddering grandfather -- who is deeply impressed with his descendant's on-screen prowess. At times, the dialogue sounds almost like a parody of a Gurney play: "I want to hook onto some rusty buoy in places like Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard and drink Martini cocktails with my fellow tribesmen while we watch the sun sink over the Yacht Club." The best thing about the piece is Greg Mullavey's brief appearance as the clueless grandfather; watching Nelson remove his pants in the sex video, he wonders aloud, "Are we going to see a tennis game?" Also, Rachel Nicks is charming as Tanisha.

The Rape of Bunny Stuntz is not the sort of title one expects to hear these days, and this 1965 piece is a kind of absurdist comedy -- Edward Albee Lite, if you will -- centering on Bunny, a clubwoman, whose attempt to run the meeting of a mysterious organization is thwarted by two developments: She has forgotten the key to unlock the box containing the papers she brought with her, and a sexy, faintly menacing young man is in the wings, giving her the eyeball. The action quickly becomes tedious as all attempts to recover the key come to nothing and Bunny repeatedly insists she has no interest in that distraction in black leather lurking just outside our view. This is an experimental play of the sixties, so you know in advance that Bunny is representative of conformity and, as such, she will be punished. The saving grace of this smug, predictable piece is Deborah Rush, who makes Bunny into a solid satirical portrait of an upper-middle-class matron, complete with a melodious voice, come-hither-but-not-too-close expressions, and velvet-over-steel manner. (She is particularly touching as Bunny loses control of the meeting, finding herself alone as the others give in to drinking, flirting, and singing showtunes.) It would be great to see her in a really fine Gurney play -- The Cocktail Party, perhaps.

The Love Course is a 1969 sex farce about a team-taught survey course in romantic literature. The twist -- the whole play, really -- is the simmering sexual tension between the two teachers. While they engage in heavy-breathing textual analyses and recriminations, the one visible student squabbles with her boyfriend, who is upset that she is moving out on him. (In those days, the idea of cohabiting with co-eds was still hot stuff.) There are some occasionally amusing bits. Carroway, the lady professor, asserts, "Phaedra, Beatrice, Isolde, Juliet, Emma Bovary, Catherine Earnshaw -- all the great women die for love!" When Sally, the student, mentions that Lady Chatterley doesn't die, Carroway insists, "Well, she ought to." But the characters are on a treadmill to nowhere, plagued by more pointless entrances and exits than you can imagine. David Saint's direction, which is overly broad throughout, is especially off-key here; the normally fine actress Betsy Aidem is encouraged to indulge in a pyrotechnic display of eccentric mannerisms, creating little amusement.

In addition, the set designer, James Youmans, has come up with a shiny, antiseptic set -- its portals lined in LED tape -- that tries to fit all three plays and suits none of them. David Murin's costumes are much better, especially Bunny's suburban chic outfit and Carroway's amusingly bizarre ensemble, more suited to a fortune teller than a PhD. Cory Pattak's lighting and Scott Killian's sound design are typical pro jobs. In the years to come, I expect we will see many Gurney revivals, with Primary Stages taking the lead. Personally, I can't wait.

Rather more interesting is Suddenly, an exercise in cinema-as-theatre by Live Source Theatre Group, a troupe that believes in integrating the design team into the creative process from the get-go. Gianfranco Settecasi's adaptation is based on the film of the same title, a rather obscure (if highly regarded) 1954 thriller starring Frank Sinatra as an assassin for hire who invades a small-town California household that offers him an excellent vantage point from which to shoot the president, who is passing through on a train trip.

Suddenly, the film, is a smart choice for this sort of exercise, because it presents a naturally tense, suspenseful situation inside a single location. (It has been years since I saw it, but I suspect that Settecasi has artfully eliminated scenes set in other locations.) Bryce Cutler's design combines a nicely detailed interior -- depicting a combination living room, kitchen, and dining area -- with a video component that shows the town outside the windows. Other clever touches include a bit in which Ellen, the beleaguered heroine, is made by John Baron, the villain, to speak to a Secret Service agent who has dropped by to check up on things; the actress Phoebe Dunn opens the door partway; onto it is projected the image of the actor who plays the agent in the film. In addition to being an economical solution, it's fun to see an actress from 2018 partnering with the image of a character man of the Eisenhower era. (Cutler's video imagery pops up on the family television, too.)

As Ellen is held hostage, along with her young son, Pidge, her father-in-law, Pop, and Tod, the lawman who loves her, the tension can't help but build, especially as the time comes for the fateful train to arrive. There's a major reservation, however, having to do with Tyler Mercer's direction. Settecasi's script captures the Hollywood-pulp tone of Richard Sale's screenplay, but there's a slight disconnect between the actors and the artificial words they have been given to say. Film dialogue, much of which is written to be delivered quietly or thrown away altogether, is often significantly different from stage conversation. The cast here gives fairly extroverted performances that leave the impression that they are putting quote marks around their lines; a more underplayed approach might have carried a deeper sense of conviction. This is especially true of Drew Allen's Baron, who tends to bark when he should merely insinuate, but both Dunn's Ellen and Brendan Walsh's Tod could have taken it down a notch, too.(Among the better performers are Chris Dieman as a killer whose nerves crack under the strain and Sean A. Kaufman as a television repairman who makes a house call, to his eternal regret.) Mercer orchestrates the complex onstage action well, but if he slowed down the action a tad, substituting a whisper for a shout, the menace might increase exponentially.

Anyway, the cast includes such familiar faces as Joseph J. Menino as Pop, craftily hiding a gun in the bread box, and Ariel Estrada as the first of Baron's henchmen to get his just deserts. Angela Harner's costumes are fine period creations. Mary Ellen Stebbins' lighting deftly acts as a kind of a camera eye, drawing our attention to significant bits of business. Adam Smith's sound design includes a variety of effects, including an arriving car, gunplay, and a honey of an electric shock. Cutler also provides an amusing opening credit sequence, merging the production's personnel with footage from the film. If you decide to attend Suddenly, go early for the montage of 1950s film trailers (Brigadoon, Rear Window, White Christmas) and newsreel footage, including a report on the latest thing in nuclear safety suits. Suddenly isn't a total success, but it is an unusual and arresting experiment; this company is worth keeping in mind. -- David Barbour