Theatre in Review: It's Only a Play (Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre)

	Rupert Grint, F. Murray Abraham, Stockard Channing, Nathan Lane. Photo: Joan Marcus

Theatre in Review: It's Only a Play (Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre) Lorne Michaels once observed that comedy is really a form of complaining, a notion borne out - fully and hilariously - in It's Only a Play, Terrence McNally's two-act kvetch-fest about Broadway's fallen state. In order to make his case that the theatre is headed straight to hell in a handbasket, McNally assembles a prize collection of show business basket cases in the swanky East Side bedroom of producer Julia Budder. It's the celebrity-laden opening night party for her first solo effort, The Golden Egg, a work that one of the guests dismisses as "a 300-pound butterball." The omens are especially bad: Julia's husband is in the hospital, having been mugged in the men's room at Sardi's. Also, her dog, Torch, has assaulted Kelly Ripa, necessitating yet another ambulance trip. And the cast of Matilda is outside Julia's townhouse, rioting and occasionally hurling snowballs through the window.

Meanwhile, various members of the production team are unraveling as they wait for the reviews to come in. The leading lady, Virginia Noyes, star of stage, screen, and tabloid, is rooting through her extensive pharmaceutical collection and fretting about the moment when her electronic ankle bracelet went off on stage. (Commenting on the difficulties of parole, she says, "What did they think I was going to do? Kill somebody else? It was an accident. It wasn't like they were both my parents.") Arguably even more of a handful is the director, Sir Frank Finger, a self-loathing British bundle of nerves, who, after a string of hits, is eagerly awaiting the moment he will be unmasked as a fraud. (His legendary productions include an all-male Medea and a production of Titus Andronicus that dispensed with the text and involved hurling blood bags at all the principals. It was the toast of RADA.) Horning in on the action is Ira Drew, a critic of John Simon tendencies - he once wrote that a playwright's parents should have strangled their offspring in his cradle - who is suspiciously, and unethically, hawking a new play by an unknown writer. The author, Peter Austin, is initially missing in action, having left behind a letter that could possibly be a suicide note.

Riding herd on this mental ward is Jimmy Wicker, Peter's best friend and former muse. The star of a popular TV sitcom - for which he gets no respect whatsoever - Jimmy turned down the lead in The Golden Egg, sensing a disaster in the making. Having shown up to assess the damage, he is stunned to discover that the network is about to cancel the series, bringing his personal gravy train to a halt. Jimmy is played by Nathan Lane, who, happily, never leaves the stage, since his pitch-perfect, exquisitely timed performance is the evening's driving force. There is no end to the indignities Jimmy suffers - being referred to as Jimmy Wacker, mistaking dog treats for cocktail canapes, and being informed that, on stage, he lacks the masculine presence of Harvey Fierstein - and the actor turns each into an occasion for wicked fun. (There is no end to his arsenal of reaction takes.) Nearly his equal is Stockard Channing as the bawdy, seen-it-all Virginia: "I showed them who's finished," she says, turning disaster into an act of defiance. Whether musing on her criminal past, enacting a sight gag involving cocaine and a mink coat, or offering a devastating imitation of senior citizen audiences, everything the lady does is golden.

If the other roles aren't quite as juicy, the rest of the cast makes the most of them. Rupert Grint exploits Sir Frank's kleptomania to good effect, neatly palming everything of value that isn't nailed down and "hiding out" from the others by ostentatiously throwing an enormous piece of black fabric over himself. Megan Mullally charms as Julia, whether she is mangling famous phrases ("As Bette Davis said, 'Fasten your safety belts - there's going to be some bumpy weather up ahead.'") or explaining that she became a head producer because she is fed up with being lost in the crowd on Tony night ("Last year, they counted 85 of us up there. Variety called it The Night of the Locusts.").

The role of Ira is one of McNally's less successful contrivances - How many critics attend opening galas? - but F. Murray Abraham does have a fantastically nonplussed reaction to Peter's unexpectedly ferocious, and obscene, answer to the question of how far he will go to win over a reviewer. Matthew Broderick's mannerisms and eerie calm aren't ideal for the role of Peter - Shouldn't he be a bundle of nerves on his opening night? - but the actor does work up a very real fury when he turns his anger on Jimmy, whom he feels has abandoned him. And Micah Stock is a steady delight as the starstruck temporary help, who honestly believes he can ease the tension in the room by bursting into "Defying Gravity."

Not very much happens in It's Only a Play, aside from the blissful second-act reading of Ben Brantley's take-no-prisoners review, which leaves nobody unscalded. ("When they go for the ushers, that's gotta be a first," marvels Jimmy.) The play is arguably too long and struggles to find a suitable ending. Still this champagne-and-cyanide cocktail never loses its fizz, thanks to the many delicious swipes at the likes of Shia LaBeouf, Daniel Radcliffe, and Faye Dunaway, and a full complement of self-referential gags. "What do I know?" says Jimmy. "I liked The Addams Family."

Of course, under the direction of Jack O'Brien, every gag is polished until it sparkles; he rightly treats the script like music, making sure that each pause, each running joke, and each scathing remark lands with laser-like precision. O'Brien has also ensured that the production is as glossy as anyone could wish. Scott Pask's cream-and-brown boudoir set, with its enormous, shoe-filled walk-in closet and Dale Chihuly-style chandelier is a deluxe setting for this collective nervous breakdown, and Philip Rosenberg's lighting adds its own touch of glamour. (There's also a very funny sight gag, involving an alternate setting for the lighting of Julia's bedroom, suitable for more intimate occasions.) Ann Roth's costumes - from the ladies' very different but equally chic gowns to Sir Frank's shock-the-bourgeoisie ensemble - are exactly right. Fitz Patton's sound design includes Torch's alarming offstage growls and some critical news broadcasts that are cut off in mid-sentence because everyone is too self-involved to notice.

What ultimately anchors It's Only a Play is its characters' reckless devotion to an art form that, more often than not, returns the favor with public humiliation and a bank overdraft. Clearly, McNally shares their devotion, and his play is a cri de cœur that, amid the onslaught of tacky star vehicles and rickety musicals based on famous films, Broadway professionalism is an endangered quality. Then again, in this production of It's Only a Play, Broadway professionalism never seemed so robust. - David Barbour