I really had no idea what I’d be seeing at the Atlantic
Theater Company’s Linda Gross Theater on 20th Street, Chelsea, when I walked
over on Friday evening, 29 March, to see Craig Lucas’s The Lying Lesson. That’s
rare for me—to be so in the dark about a play I was attending. I’d read Charles Isherwood’s New York Times review of the world première on 14 March, but
I only came away with the knowledge that the play was about Bette Davis and
that the reviewer didn’t think much of it.
I used to say that I generally agree with Isherwood’s assessments, but
lately that hasn’t been so, so I couldn’t even go into this with a feeling that
I might have the same reaction he did.
In fact, I anticipated having an opposite response to The Lying Lesson since I’d differed with
the review-writer’s opinions on a string of recent productions, if not with his
overall judgment (see my reports on Melissa James Gibson’s What
Rhymes With America, 3
January, or David Henry Hwang’s The Dance and
the Railroad, 17 March), then with the rationale for it (Lanford Wilson’s The Mound Builders, 27 March).
Well, guess what. I’m now back on
Team Isherwood again, at least for this play.
Even when we fundamentally agreed, I might find that the Timesman was kinder about some fault
than I was or harsher in judging a misstep, though we often saw the same
ones. That’s what happened in the case
of The Lying Lesson. (Doesn’t that sound just like an episode of
the old Perry Mason TV series? “The Case of the Lying Lesson”! Sorry.
Took a little side trip. I’m back
now.) Anyway, here’s the poop on Lucas’s
play and the ATC production, directed by Pam MacKinnon.
The Lying Lesson, which
opened on 13 March after starting previews on 6 February, is set in 1981 in a
small town in Maine where Bette Davis, using her birth name Ruth Elizabeth
(Davis), is buying an old house. She
once lived in the town and the house belongs to a man she once loved when they
were youngsters. She arrives during a
violent thunderstorm and finds the house empty—until, that is, someone creeps
through a window in the dark (the power having gone out after one especially
big thunderclap). “Ruth” grabs a carving
knife and threatens the intruder (“I
will sever your carotid artery!”), who turns out to be a young woman who’s been
caring for the property while the owners prepare it for sale. At first, Minnie Bodine says she doesn’t have
any idea who Ruth is (which seems to miff Davis a little, even though she keeps
insisting that no one should know her “true identity” until after the closing
on the house). But that, like much else
in The Lying Lesson, proves to be
less than the complete truth. (Those, I
venture to guess, are the lies from which Lucas intends the characters and us
to take the lessons of the title. But I
can’t actually prove it, as you’ll hear.)
What follows on
stage is a two-hour, two-act two-hander (d’you follow that?) that is neither a
celebrity exposé nor a take on the Grand Guignol films Davis was relegated to
making (think What Ever Happened to Baby
Jane, released in 1962), though there are suggestions that both or either
could break out at any moment. I was put
in mind of another play about long-ago celebs that intended to use events
around their lives to make some universal point, Austin Pendleton's Orson’s Shadow, staged in New York City in 2005. In both plays, little tidbits of bio and
theater or movie lore are dropped as the characters go about some business—in Orson’s Shadow, Orson Welles and
Laurence Olivier are rehearsing the 1960 London début of Ionesco’s Rhinoceros—which forms a
backdrop-cum-matrix for the real drama in the play. (For the record, I didn’t like Orson’s Shadow very much, either.) The
Lying Lesson, which closed on 31 March, was billed as a comedy-thriller,
but I found the laughs mild and few and the thrills predictable and
unconvincing. (A dark and stormy
night? Really?) In fact, I found myself losing focus a lot as
I tried to figure out where Lucas was heading and, after the intermission, what
he was trying to tell us. I never did,
by the way. (My companion, Diana, had
the same problems and intermission buzz confirmed that we weren’t alone.) According to the Atlantic’s P.R., The Lying Lesson’s supposed to be
dealing with “essential questions about memory, identity, and truth-telling.” Well, maybe—but on a pretty superficial and
insubstantial level, as far as I could tell.
As I said to a friend afterwards, there was lying in the play, but the
lies aren’t really very big and there's no lesson to be drawn from them.
I have no idea why Lucas wrote this play. I’ve never been a fan of Lucas’s and I don’t
know his work very well, but in his review, Isherwood says the playwright’s
works “vary widely both in quality
and style” and that The Lying Lesson
is “an unusually temperate” example of his writing. Maybe Lucas is just a big fan of Bette Davis. The play seems to have no purpose except to
sketch a portrait of the star in late life (it's set just eight years before
her death). Most damaging—and enervating
(it's a fairly long evening)—is that there doesn't seem to be a point. I think Lucas was just star-fucking. (Of course, in this case, it's also
necrophilia!)
I suppose that what Lucas may have been up to, presumably
anyway, was to bring together two people seemingly from opposite ends of the
spectrum, a famous and worldly movie star at the end of her career and a
small-town young woman with no apparent accomplishments, and by showing how
much alike they actually are, reveal truths about them—and us all. (I’m totally guessing here, you
understand.) Of course, nothing like
that happens. What we end up with is a
sort of buddy play: two mismatched women thrown together in a somewhat fraught
circumstance and they fill in each other’s missing bits. Well, sort of: that last part isn’t so
clear. Lucas dresses The Lying Lesson up by making one of the
two women Bette Davis (and getting Carol
Kane to do a sort of drag-queen impersonation of her). That’s so he can drop a lot of Hollywood
references and factoids to keep older folks like me (and I’m barely old
enough—Davis was already a big star by the time I was old enough to watch
movies) and old-movie junkies hopping.
(‘What movie was that an allusion to?’
‘She said “Willy”—is that William Wyler?’) The wordless bit at the end of the play is a
reenactment of a iconic moment from a movie made four years before I was even
born. It was like a live version of
Trivial Pursuits: Bette Davis Edition.
If it hadn‘t been two hours long (with the intermission), it might have
been sort of fun: Not Bette Davis,
but an incredible simulation.
But of course, it was two hours and Lucas gave it a plot I also had to
get through. The story of buying the
house and the lost teenage love and who is Minnie really and who’s lying now
and about what is just an excuse to put Davis on stage, so it’s all essentially
meaningless and uninteresting and tedious.
Trust me, if I get to the intermission and I ask, out loud, “Where the
hell is this going?”—it’s tedious! (At The Mound Builders the previous week, there was something of an
exodus at intermission; that didn’t seem to happen at the Atlantic. The house was, in fact, quite full even given
the poor critical reception the play got.) Anyone who’s been reading my
performance reports know about my two criteria for good theater: 1) It must do
more than tell a story, and 2) it must do it in a theatrical way. Well, The Lying Lesson is
theatrical—though much of that is cheap theatrics: the thunderstorm and the
blackout, the intruder climbing through the window, a prop gun that turns out
not just to be real, but loaded, and so on—but it only tells a little story,
and not a very interesting one, so it’s not going on my list.
Physically, the production was fine: perfectly appropriate for the
needs without being especially outstanding.
Neil Patel’s seedy, unprepossessing house, surrounded by dense foliage
visible through the windows, looks just like hundreds of similar old homes, furnished
haphazardly and without much thought to décor or style—a chrome-and-plastic
table in the dining area with a couple of yellow vinyl chairs around it, a
wood-framed couch in the center of the living room, and so on. A dingy environment for a fading Hollywood
star. The stage was lit by Russell H.
Champa to enhance the seaminess of the set, and the storm with which we were
greeted, enhanced by the sound effects of Broken Chord, was entirely
believable—and loud! (There were signs
in the lobby warning patrons about the herbal cigarettes smoked on stage, but
no warning about the heart attack-inducing thunder claps and lightning
bolts.) Ilona Somogyi’s costumes made
their points nicely: Davis’s Hollywood style, perhaps not red-carpet-worthy, but
substantial and smart, and her loungewear that was way too elegant for her
current surroundings, and Minnie’s country tom-boy get-up contrasted perfectly
with one another. Add the Bette Davis
wig Charles LaPointe designed for Carol Kane, and the play looked terrific.
MacKinnon did a creditable job of moving the actors about the set, but
the pace she set was, as the New York Post reviewer put it, glacial. Since little happens through most of the
play—I’m not confusing “action” with “activity” here: the characters do a lot
of business—the deliberate tempo of MacKinnon’s staging only exacerbated
the tedium of Lucas’s script. It’s not
as if there’s suspense that warrants attenuating the action of The Lying Lesson, so why not at least
move it along more swiftly. It wouldn’t
have hurt, believe me.
I also can’t really compliment MacKinnon on her work with
the actors. Neither Kane nor Mickey
Sumner (Minnie—yes, that’s right: “Mickey” is “Minnie”) did terrible work here,
but neither was especially brilliant on stage, either. Kane captured the familiar, almost-mannish
walk and stance of the instantly-recognizable star, but she overemphasized it
to the extent that it became a caricature.
Her vocal pattern was even worse: as nearly every reviewer noted, it
sounded as if Kane were doing some kind of Eastern European accent. As “Ruth Elizabeth” insists to Minnie that
she should never reveal the star’s true identity until after the property
closing, I wondered if Davis were intentionally doing some kind of foreign accent—except
that she’d been doing it when no one was in the house. At one point, Davis answers a phone call and
the caller apparently tells her she sounds like a female impersonator doing an
impression of Davis. Well, that's close
to what Kane sounded like. Isherwood, in
fact, remarked that Kane “keeps her
performance from devolving into a vulgar drag act (without the drag).” I only deny that the actress avoided the
pitfall.
As for Minnie,
Sumner makes the young woman gangly and boyish, loping around the set and
draping herself into or onto the furniture as if she were loose-jointed. Several reviewers complimented her on her
Maine accent, but some observed that it was both a little shaky (it “detours
from Bronx to Boston,” said Joe Dziemianowicz of the Daily News) and just as drawn out as the production was overall. (I went to camp in Maine and I have family in
Massachusetts where I’ve spent many holidays and vacations. What Sumner voiced didn’t sound much like any
Downeasterner I ever heard. Ay-yup.
Sumner, who’s Sting’s daughter, by the way—his birth name is Gordon
Sumner—was born and raised in England—the old one, not the New one.) The dialect coach was Kate Wilson.
Most of the press
I scanned agreed pretty much down the line, with the few variations in opinion
coming in the intensity of either the compliments or the detractions. Isherwood, for instance, called the play “sedate
and moderately sentimental” while Dziemianowicz said it was “an odd duck of a
play—and an inedible one at that.” The Lying Lesson is naught but “a
cheesy thriller” to Michael Feingold in
the Village Voice, but on CurtainUp, Simon Saltzman said it was “nonsensical and dreary.” Only Time Out New York’s Adam Feldman actually found the play “engrossing
and highly enjoyable.”
The consensus is
pretty universal with respect to what the play means. On Talkin’
Broadway, Matthew Murray asked of the play’s intent, “Why.” Murray’s response: “The Lying Lesson
does not have a point of view” commensurate with Lucas’s other work. Back Stage’s Erik Haagensen merely dubbed the play “not .
. . particularly deep” but Saltzman called it a “meaninglessly meandering text.” The Post’s
Elisabeth Vincentelli, in arguably the most direct
conclusion, declared simply that “it’s hard to tell what Lucas is trying to say.”
Some outlets had better things to say about the acting than others, and
some preferred Kane over Sumner or vice versa.
(“Mickey Sumner gives a
very convincing performance as a New England townie, complete with flawless
dialect. You can practically smell the
lobster wafting off of her clothes,” wrote TheaterMania’s
Zachary Stewart. “And Carol Kane is
superb as Davis. Not only does she capture the star’s (very imitable)
inflections and mannerisms . . . but she also acts through and beyond impersonation,”
pronounced Feldman in TONY.) Just about the only paper that
was essentially positive in its overall assessment was Back Stage, the theater trade weekly. Despite the reservation I quoted earlier,
Haagensen found the play “mostly
great fun” and with a “witty, biting script.”
Kane succeeds through her “humanity,” Haagensen asserted, and Sumner
“keeps us guessing,” all under “Pam MacKinnon’s eagle eye.” The Back
Stage reviewer described the physical production elements in
superlatives and, after suggesting that the “script could lose some fat” and
acknowledging that the “ending, though perfectly plausible, doesn’t quite
satisfy,” Haagensen concluded “‘The Lying Lesson’ is a nimble, twisty, and very
funny entertainment.” (Haagensen’s is
not an assessment I agree with much. I’m
just reporting; you decide.)
According to a number of the reviews, Lucas wrote a note at
the beginning of the script of The Lying
Lesson stating “This play is a damn
lie.” Apparently what he means is
simply that the events presented in the play are fictional, but to my ears, the
statement pretty much sums up the theatrical experience altogether: it’s a
phony drama. It pretends to be substantial and portentous—and it’s played
as if it is—but it’s really not. Theatrically
and dramatically, The Lying Lesson is
a damned lie. I said I wasn’t particularly a fan of Craig
Lucas’s work. The Lying Lesson
didn’t change my mind on that.
[When I told my friend Kirk that I
would be seeing The Lying Lesson, just after
Isherwood’s review came out, he e-mailed me this anecdote about the late movie
star:
[I have one
Bette Davis story. For a while I
weekended in Weston, Connecticut, near Westport, where Davis lived, and I saw
her house – a modest ranch house. We
knew a cab driver who desperately wanted to pick her up at the train station
sometime, and finally did. He rattled on
to her about her movies, her roles, her famous lines, etc. Finally she said to him (supply the tone of
voice for yourself), “You're queer, aren't you?”]
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