A classic classic at the Huntington

Waterston and Amato arm for their next lovers' quarrel. Photo(s): Paul Marotta.

If you haven't noticed (and why should you have?), the debate over new plays vs. classics has once again coughed to life in the blogosphere.  Of course the usual suspects (i.e., under-talented climbers) have piped up with the familiar arguments against producing the great plays - when, as everyone knows, their actual argument is that if classics once again are allowed pride of place on the stage, young playwrights will be forced to reckon with their standard (which is something they quite desperately do not want to do).

But don't worry - I'm not about to make an argument in favor of the classic theatre; instead I'm going to let the Huntington's current production of Noël Coward's Private Lives make it for me. Just see it and you'll understand what I mean; the heady buzz that it leaves the audience in tells you that a classic done right is its own argument - indeed, it simply levels the opposition.

But before you speed-dial Parabasis, I don't mean by this that theatres should abandon new work (far from it!).  The Huntington does both, after all (The Luck of the Irish was their most recent new-play success), and while artistic director Peter DuBois seems, well, disinterested in the classics, he has been careful to hire great outside directors to carry on that half of his theatre's mandate.  Hence we have recently enjoyed unforgettable productions of plays like Candide and All My Sons.

Perhaps somewhere DuBois understands that without the frame of the classics, new work has no context, or rather its context becomes television (which may be why so many new plays have begun to resemble cable).  Indeed, context is part of the reason classics continue to be central to every other art form; symphony orchestras, for instance, play Beethoven and Mozart because they define the reach - and limits - of their medium (at least so far).  When an orchestra launches into Beethoven, it is in effect stating "This is what we're aiming for; this what it's all about; this is what you can do with an orchestra." When a ballet company takes the stage in Balanchine, it is making the same kind of declaration. Theatres should do classic plays for precisely the same reason - and what's more, new playwrights should welcome the challenge and inspiration they provide.

Now mind you - after all those claims, I'm going to have to admit that Private Lives isn't actually a great classic; it's a minor classic (if a highly entertaining one).  And this isn't even quite a great production - it's only a very, very good production; and oddly, one that doesn't attempt to "re-invent" or "update" the text, but plays everything absolutely straight; in other words, this is a classic version of a classic. And yet everyone is celebrating!  It has critics doing handsprings, and on opening night, people were as bubbly as the champagne flowing through half the show as they surged into the night after the final curtain.  That's how powerful classics - even minor ones - can truly be.

The originals in the original production.

Although okay, I admit it - I do adore Private Lives.  Coward churned out many plays, songs, and entertainments over the course of his life - some of them only serviceable, some of them even dross, but a handful that may well live forever - or at any rate deserve to.  And Private Lives is one of those happy few.

Like most of classic Coward, it's a confession disguised as a cabaret act; and it is immortal because almost unconsciously, beneath all the sparkling quips and flip bon mots, the author reveals more than he ever meant to about his own heart - and certain conditions plaguing it that are probably universal.  He himself, of course, played lead Elyot Chase in the 1930 premiere, opposite muse Gertrude Lawrence as Amanda (he directed as well, and cast a rising young actor named Laurence Olivier as Amanda's new husband, Victor).  You get some idea of how perfectly matched Coward and Lawrence were as the warring old flames at the center of Coward's comedy from the following legend: when Lawrence first read the play, she immediately cabled "There's nothing wrong with it that can't be fixed!"  Coward cabled back at once that her own performance was the only thing that he thought would need fixing.

Ever since, Private Lives has been catnip to actors, but few have captured precisely the elusive chemistry that Coward and Lawrence brought to the roles.  And at the Huntington, I'm afraid, the trend still holds true: James Waterston (yes, son of Sam) is obviously miscast as Elyot; he lacks the sense of cheeky chic, the easy gloss of fabulousness, that we expect of a Coward hero.  Plus he seems heterosexual, when of course Coward was one of those male orchids of the 20's and 30's (Cary Grant was another) whose allure seemed to soar onto some higher plane, and make questions of ultimate orientation irrelevant (Lawrence had something of the same aura, and let's not get started on Olivier!).

Luckily, however, Waterston is a smart and accomplished actor, and he makes the wit work in his own appealingly spoiled way - and he makes us believe (and this is crucial) that arch as he may be, his love for Amanda is real.  And at any rate, his costar supplies enough luxe for both of them; Bianca Amato (at right) is practically the perfect Amanda - très amusante and yet a little world-weary too; more self-aware than Elyot but also more impulsive and exasperating; with a streak of the gamine in her soul, and a hint of boyishness as well (which would, in a more perfect world, balance Elyot's feminine hauteur).  What's more, she warbles (and Charlestons) like a dream.  I've seen several Lives - and one that cohered slightly more than this one, with both a brighter gleam and deeper shadows, too; but I've never seen a better Amanda, and I don't expect to; Amato is Amanda.

Together these two - with the help of director Maria Aitken (who herself once played Amanda) - exquisitely limn Coward's great theme (almost his only theme); the folly of living for, and to, the siren call of infatuation.  Elyot and Amanda are the type who can neither live with nor without each other; already divorced, we bump into them when they bump into each other, on their respective honeymoons with innocent new spouses.  Needless to say, their spark is rekindled (for who else could be more attractive?), they ditch the new bride and groom, and the rest of the play follows their impulsively renewed affair as it flares brightly, in a cocoon of delicious intimacy, then eventually (and inevitably) crashes and burns.

But before Coward lets you wag the finger, he brings those conventional, outraged spouses onto the scene, to play out their own emotional arc (from which, as usual for this playwright, the heroes simply escape again).  The joke, of course, is that this proves what is true of Elyot and Amanda is true, to some degree, of everybody; but the surprise here is how complex at least one of these figures becomes.  Autumn Hurlbert is perfectly good as the chirpy Sibyl, Elyot's spurned spouse; but Jeremy Webb (below, with Amato) makes something extraordinary out of Victor, who's generally cast as a quietly pompous prig.  Webb teases so much sophisticated, even noble, color from his final scenes with Amanda, however, that you leave almost wishing he'd been playing Elyot.  I've seen Mr. Webb before - and been impressed before, too; indeed, after this performance I have the feeling he may be one of the most gifted classical actors in America.  May the casting gods bring him our way again, and soon.

Well - do you really need to know more, or do you have your tickets yet?  The scenic and costume design, by Allen Moyer and Candice Donnelly, respectively, are quite smashing (as you can tell from these photos - the  scrims after Dufy are also just right, and the Parisian apartment, knowingly graced with a huge mirror, is particularly expert).  On the sidelines, local light Paula Plum does a droll turn - and nails a convincing accent - as Amanda's put-upon maid.  Meanwhile director Maria Aitken, whose subtle and intelligent work has become a staple at the Huntington, perhaps glides over the darker notes that Coward (almost unwittingly) strikes, but she doesn't try to obscure them, either; she clearly knows this play inside and out, and she lets you figure some things out for yourself.  Nor does Aitken make too much fuss over the slap Elyot delivers to Amanda (just after she has struck him over the head with a phonograph record); she conveys that no, this is not acceptable behavior, while acknowledging that with someone as essentially childish as Elyot, it's not so unexpected, either.

So you leave bemused by these people, but hardly morally impressed; and that's as it should be, too.  You may even find yourself teased by a certain trace of sympathy for this pampered pair - poor, divine Elyot and Amanda!  How barren their gorgeous lives must be!  And if you're like me, you may even want to spend more time with them.  For yes, I admit I'm paying this production my highest compliment: I'm paying to see it a second time.

Flagging Spirit

Kathy St. George reaches out to the unknown in Blithe Spirit. Photos by Mark S. Howard.

The spirit is willing in the Lyric Stage's new production of Blithe Spirit (which plays through June 5); and you can't say the flesh is weak - indeed, everyone is obviously putting their shoulder to the wheel in this earthbound version of Noel Coward's famous 40's farce.

But maybe that's the problem - here, the flesh is too strong; everyone's so strenuously trying to put the show over that it never achieves the sense of sophisticated ease that was Coward's ideal. In a word, you can't be "blithe" when you're breaking a sweat. And everyone's trying so hard because, I think, deep down they're all aware (old pros that they are) that nobody's quite right for what they're doing.

Now when it comes to small theatre, we're all used to the approximate - and no doubt Rex Harrison wasn't available for this production. And can you really complain when a local cast includes Paula Plum, Anne Gottlieb, Richard Snee, Kathy St. George and Sarah deLima, all of them dragging a veritable litany of awards or nominations behind them? No, I suppose you can't.

Still, Coward only thrives when it's precise. And precise in an amusingly off-hand manner - a manner that's not director Spiro Veloudos's strong suit, to be honest. Veloudos is a clever comic director, but you'd never accuse him of too light a touch; he likes to nail things down, whereas Coward affected such indifference that he actually advised actors to keep delivering their lines straight through their laughs. Something tells me that didn't actually happen often in Coward's productions, of course, but it gives you an idea of the atmosphere he was trying to conjure: since he dashed the play off in just half an hour, darling, he couldn't possibly wait for you to finish laughing as there was a yacht waiting for him bound for the Riviera!

To be fair, the Lyric cast does win those laughs; Kathy St. George in particular practically wrestles them out of the audience. But there's little sense of elegant sheen to the evening, and the pace is often stumbling, and to be honest, even the theme of the play feels obscure. Just about all of Coward's best scripts depend on the same plot: the duel between old sex and new sex. Usually old sex wins out (Private Lives, Present Laughter); sometimes no sex wins out (Blithe Spirit); and sometimes there's a hard-won tie (Design for Living). (New sex almost always loses, which may be why conservatives always adored Coward, even as he toyed with bisexuality and various forms of ménage right before their eyes.)


Paula Plum and Richard Snee ponder some astral bigamy.

But director Veloudos - and alas, star Richard Snee - seem never to have awoken to the importance of the emotional backbone of the play. As Coward factotum "Charles Condomine" (a reference to "condominium" or "condiment"? You decide!) Snee does a heterosexual version of debonair pretty well - probably better than Coward did - but he seems to have confused "debonair" with "disinterested," and thus appears bored with both new and old sex. That is, in either controlling second wife Ruth (Anne Gottlieb), or impetuous late wife Elvira (Paula Plum), whose blithe spirit has been accidentally summoned from the beyond by the eccentric Madame Arcati (St. George). To be blunt, the arc for this "astral bigamist" should be the typical Coward one of delight in the return of romantic excitement, followed by frustration as that excitement devolves into petty egotism. But here that arc never happens.

Even though, as Elvira, Paula Plum does her best to strike a romantic spark. The smart, sensible Plum doesn't naturally have the touch of exoticism we expect from Elvira, but she compensates with a really wonderful sense of romantic swoon (plus she looks great in costumer Charles Schoonmaker's Lily-Munster get-up). Likewise St. George, who usually plays sprites, is simply miscast as Madame Arcati - the joke here is that the medium is more a British bloodhound (albeit with an unexpected mystical talent) than a flibbertigibbet. But St. George doesn't take no for an answer, and slowly she wins the audience over through sheer enthusiasm. Alas, as the slightly-brittle Ruth, Anne Gottlieb doesn't really get the same chance; Veloudos has directed her too obviously (her control issues should creep up on us, not be declared in the first scene), and for once Schoonmaker has gone wrong by costuming her in the same vampy style he has given Elvira.

All this isn't enough to actually sink the show - it just keeps it from soaring. There are nice touches here and there, and Brynna Bloomfield's set gets the job done (although it doesn't blow apart with nearly the poltergeistic brio of the wittier Trinity Rep version last spring). And after the cast settles in (there were a few dropped lines on opening), a smoother rhythm may develop for Coward's banter. In short, it may simply take some time for this soufflé to rise; for certainly these talented folks have the spirit in them to be blithe.

The most fun you'll ever have at the A.R.T.

Will Lebow, Karen MacDonald, Tommy Derrah and Remo Airaldi in A Marvelous Party.

I went to "A Marvelous Party"
with Remo, Tom, Karen and Will
It was at Zero Ar
And they were all there
Only this time they weren't
in Hell.

At times they would be singing solo,
At others, together, all four;
And if now and then a note got a bit thin
It just didn't matter amid all the laughter -

I couldn't have liked it more!

Ah, I wish I could go on and on and like that - certainly Noël Coward made it look easy in the tunes he turned out like clockwork over the course of his life's work. A Marvelous Party essentially skims la crème of said career, and reminds us of Coward's consummate ability as a posh vaudevillian. He didn't just have "a talent to amuse," which he ruefully admitted was his one claim to fame; he had an obsession to amuse: the list of Coward "entertainments" is a very long one, most of them coasting not on his melodic gift (which was modest) but instead on his wit (which was promethean). And the A.R.T. production, helmed by the smoothly competent Scott Edmiston, captures this wit superbly, and with neither apology nor condescension (much less any hidden attempts at deconstruction).

It's also nice that (unlike in the Huntington's Present Laughter), Coward is allowed to peek out of the closet; Edmiston gives "If Love Were All," Coward's most poignant paean to his frustrated love life, to Tommy Derrah, who turns it into a painfully straightforward gay lament:

I believe
the more you love a man -
the more you give your trust -
the more you're bound to lose . . .

So much for gay pride! True, Edmiston also gives "Mad About the Boy" to Karen MacDonald - when it, too, would be more compelling from a man - but MacDonald's smoldering neurosis makes you almost believe a heterosexual can match a homosexual in passion (well, almost). Alas, MacDonald can't match the level of cabaret singing we've come to expect from Boston's smaller theatres (imagine what Leigh Barrett could do with that song), but her occasional vocal wobbles - like those of most of the cast - are less due to limits in range than a gap in practiced control. In short, this crew can carry a tune at least as far as Coward requires (Derrah, the most accomplished vocalist, also handles Coward's most memorable melody, the conventionally sentimental "Matelot").

Key to these non-singers' success, however, is Coward's lyrical signature: a kind of free-form limerick, which he could stretch or shrink to his requirements with a rippling flourish - and these A.R.T. vets are more than crack at snapping that tongue-tripping whip in such hilarious trifles as "Why Do the Wrong People Travel?," (Don't Put Your Daughter on the Stage,) Mrs. Worthington," ""Mad Dogs and Englishmen," and my particular favorite, “A Bar on the Piccola Marina.” Special mention must also be made of Remo Airaldi's hilarious take on "Nina (from Argentina)" while possessed by the ghost of - or at least the fruity headgear of - Carmen Miranda (at left). The evening reaches a giddy high with Coward's bitchy update of Porter's "Let's Do It" (lifted from his famous Vegas act), which the performers hilariously extend to the present day, and our current First Family.

The giddiness fades, of course, as we shuffle out and ponder that this is probably the last good time we'll have at the A.R.T. for months, if not years. But does it really have to be that way? The show definitely has a "second-tier" feel - it's riding a wave of local Coward productions, the set is re-purposed (from "The Onion Cellar" - it works about as well for Vegas as it did for Weimar), and Scott Edmiston is neither from Eastern Europe nor New York. And let's not forget that it's utterly, sublimely conventional, and reminds us in no uncertain terms that Coward was a cockney who through talent and hard work transformed himself into a sleek, closeted Tory. But will it penetrate management's postmodern skulls that it's nevertheless a huge hit, and that their subscribers, relieved of the responsibility to revolt, are relaxing instead, and enjoying themselves in a way they never have before - as in ever? Probably not. And more's the pity. It reminds me of an odd conversation I once had with Robert Woodruff, who wondered aloud why it was that gays and minorities didn't flock to the A.R.T. "Because your shows are no fun," I told him simply. And they still aren't - except this one time (and you've only got one weekend left to take advantage of the opportunity!). So, in celebration of the appearance at the A.R.T. of the one thing that money can't buy, here's my final attempt - I promise - at a Noël Coward lyric:

I went to a marvelous party
held by the post-modern A.R.T.;
With no platform shoes or onstage lagoons
and no gravel at all on the floor!
No jocks or kimonos? Quick, call Yoko Ono!
They're not avant-garde anymore!
(And I couldn't have liked it more!)

Present perfect

Sometimes it's very nice to get exactly what you want - a sentiment with which I'm sure the posh crowd at the opening of the Huntington's Present Laughter would agree. Everyone knew the Noël Coward piece was perfect for Artistic Director Nicholas Martin, and Victor Garber (at left) was perfectly cast as its Coward-like star, Garry Essendine; what's more, the show was packed with Huntington favorites (Broadway star Brooks Ashmanskas, along with local heroes Nancy E. Carroll and Richard Snee), and celebrated designer Alexander Dodge was on hand to supply a suitably luxe suite of Art Deco digs. After the misfires of Well and Persephone, the hunger for a hit from the Huntington was palpable - but would the show match its expectations?

Well, yes, and then some. Present Laughter isn't just a swank, sophisticated hit but a home run, a gleaming theatrical Rolls that rolls right over the competition and all but revels in its old-fashioned appointments. This isn't a show for the avant-garde, nor one for the politically correct - unlike the out-and-proud New York version a few years ago, the Huntington pushes Coward back into the closet (even the program refers to his sexuality only obliquely). But somehow I didn't care - the Huntington is certainly gay-friendly, and I understand the longing straight people have to hang onto the culture they thought was theirs but really wasn't - they don't want to give up Cary Grant or Noël Coward; they want to believe heterosexuals can be suavely glamorous and carefree, too. Fat chance, of course; still, ignoring the show's gay "subtext" makes it more "universal," I suppose (even the bigots can feel included!), and perhaps Coward had the last word on this score when he refused to out himself by saying, "You see there are still two little old ladies in Tunbridge Wells who don't know."


Lisa Banes and Victor Garber relax on Alexander Dodge's set.

Certainly the virtues celebrated by Laughter - loyalty, self-possession, and sexual maturity - are (or should be) universal, at least among adults; this is what makes Coward still valuable, and what (along with his wit) will ensure his work endures. These themes are also honored at the Huntington, even if the "girls" are bona-fide girls this time around (the play deals with Garry Essendine's problem with what the Clintons might have called "bimbo eruptions"). Occasionally director Martin gooses things along a bit broadly (a perilously low-cut gown all-but-cheekily defies its period, for instance) but generally he crafts nearly voluptuous stretches of knowing banter that go down with the sweet sting of vintage champagne - and Dodge's smashing set, all 30s-era murals and curving banisters, conjures almost more atmosphere than required. But it's Broadway vet Victor Garber who must shine in this glittering setting, and he more than sparkles as the vain, vulnerable, impossible Essendine, who's still robustly seductive (even in a zebra-print dressing gown), but whose "age" varies from 42 to over a decade higher, and who's constantly catching his own eye in the mirror to count his gray hairs and wrinkles.

Much of the depth of Present Laughter, indeed, comes from the startling frankness of this self-portrait (which is rather less flattering than the one on Garry's wall). Essendine may be a talented monster (who's occasionally nasty toward women - Louise Kennedy, that's your cue!), but he has a sharp sense of his own absurdity, so we understand why those around him love him - and also why, and how, he loves them back. The mutual admiration society probably extends to this cast of actors, too, many of whom, like the characters they play, have worked together before, and here perform as a seamless unit. Indeed, the cast is so strong that this star vehicle often feels like an ensemble piece. Brooks Ashmanskas, for instance (above left), as a blithering playwright harassing Gary, suffuses his performance with a memorable infantility, and is so impeccable in his physical comedy that he steals the show almost every time he crosses the stage. Meanwhile Lisa Banes, as not-quite-ex-wife Liz, and Sarah Hudnut, as Gary's bright-eyed-but-seen-it-all secretary, are both superbly long-suffering in complementary keys. And don't get me started on local star Nancy Carroll, whose washed-out maidservant earned a roar of laughter on her very first entrance. My only quibble was with Pamela J. Gray as the predatory Joanna (who seeks with her feminine wiles to up-end Garry's comfortable existence); Gray's presence seemed to me at first not nearly ferocious enough (despite that plunging gown), but I have to admit she eventually won me over as she slowly stirred her well-chilled calculations.

Indeed, as the curtain fell (after a lovely song from the cast), I was reminded that Present Laughter has always seemed to me rather underrated in the Coward canon. Although it relies on this playwright's standard tropes (the dressing gowns, the dressings-down), it hints at an autumnal depth that the standard Coward hits lack - loss, loneliness, and the relentless passage of time register more poignantly here than elsewhere in his ouevre, and at the finale he (via Garry) even seems to grow up a little. And while Coward does closet his sexuality, Present Laughter still registers as far less guarded than, say, the more sexually-open Design for Living. Would an aggressively gay interpretation overshadow these virtues? Perhaps; and so I'm grateful to the Huntington for hewing to its author's intentions and persona - and of course more than happy with a production that could hold its own on Broadway.

Was Noel Coward a misogynist?

Misogynist - or bitch?

The Boston Globe's Louise Kennedy diagnoses Noel Coward's brain as "charming, but misogynist" in today's review of Design for Living. I seem to recall this is one political issue that reliably rouses Louise, so you have to consider the emotional source of the charge. Still, it's true that Coward has his moments. In Private Lives, for instance, there's the notorious quip that "Some women should be struck regularly, like gongs." And in Design for Living, women receive a few nasty putdowns (particularly, ironically enough, from the mouth of Gilda, his heroine).

But is that kind of queeny bitchery really misogyny? Certainly it squares - superficially - with the straight version of the syndrome (which is why, unfortunately, the lines get laughs). But in a way, isn't Gilda calling women "bitches" in Design for Living a bit like Ludacris using the n-word? After all, Coward wasn't just gay, he was a bottom - and, not to put too fine a point on it, bottoms in the end (as it were) will stoop to anything when faced with the competition!

Sorry, but the love/hate relationship of the queen to the female is far too complex to be reduced to "misogyny." This isn't to say that Coward in bitch mode is a pretty sight - it's simply to point out that we should understand him for what he was. I realize, of course, that Scott Heller isn't about to let Louise Kennedy explain tops and bottoms to the soccer moms who read the Globe - still, it's lazy to pretend some pseudo-feminist critique of "the male" is appropriate to Coward's persona. The man who wrote the heroines of Hay Fever, Private Lives, Present Laughter, and (yes) Design for Living certainly had insight into - and even identified with - women, and in particular a certain kind of feminine allure. Perhaps feminism itself has a problem with that allure (and its underside) - but that's not Coward's problem.

We all loved each other so much

Gabriel Kuttner, Susanne Nitter, and Diego Arciniegas design their
own love seat in Design for Living. Photo by Scott Clyve.

Noel Coward only had one great scene, really - declining love betrayed. But luckily for us, in Design for Living, he gets to write it three times, from three different angles, as a romantic triangle folds into a ménage à trois. And the actors in the new production by the Publick Theater, under the direction of Spiro Veloudos, generally play the hell out of all three versions.

In a way, the thesps have to - they're among Boston's best, but sorry, you couldn't really say they're designed for Coward. Susanne Nitter looks smart in Chanel, and Diego Arciniegas can throw off Latin sparks when he wants, but neither is quite luxe enough for roles that were originally written for the Lunts and Coward himself. And as for Gabriel Kuttner - well, he conjures up comfortable old shoes far more than spats. Luckily, however, the guy can truly act.

Which brings me to what's so très, très amusante about this particular production - it doesn't depend on the cold emotional chrome of so much Coward. Its glamour gap is its secret weapon - the damn thing's heartfelt! The director (and cast) have made some noise about the relevance of Coward's romantic arrangements to today's debate on gay marriage, but their production actually belies the parallel. Coward's characters disdain marriage, and their show isn't about sex, gay/bi or otherwise - it is, it turns out, about affection. And that's what makes it so improbably affecting. I know Leo loves Otto and Otto loves Leo and both say they love Gilda and she says hey, guys, same here; but this is the first production I've seen of Design for Living in which I actually believed them.

Or at least, believed them as far as one can believe such fatuous egoists. Design for Living is more in love with success than anything - or anyone - else. Its social-climbing protagonists could star in some gay Ayn Rand opus, they're so handsome and talented - and surprise, everything they've got is for sale (except, of course, their hearts!). Needless to say, these were Coward's attitudes, too; in fact, Design for Living is more or less Noel's Guide to Being Noel, and as many have pointed out, the script wasn't just his ode to the Lunts, it was all about his jones for the Lunts (particularly Alfred).

But if Art and Life are in a lip-lock throughout the play, Leo and Otto aren't (at least not in this production). Despite his brave words, director Veloudos toes the 30's-era line on sexual propriety; there's plenty of coy double entendre in the last act, but nothing else French (much less Greek!). I admit I did miss the rising sexual chemistry between Diego and Gabriel when they tied one on and then got it on - but the scene's so funny as a piece of comic acting that you don't really care. Kuttner in particular is something of a miracle; Arciniegas is superb, but still depends on tiny technical tricks to structure his intoxication - meanwhile Kuttner just gets drunker before our eyes; in fact, his performance throughout is a kind of model of spontaneous, internal acting.

This isn't to slight Susanne Nitter (who's overdue for some local awards, btw). Although she's a bit adrift in the cross-currents of her opening scene (along with Nigel Gore, her partner), Nitter soon finds her sea legs and brings a touching note of rue to her role. And like her co-stars, she has a wonderful way with Coward's repartee - for once, the play's celebrated, self-indulgent wit really does tickle us like bubbles in champagne.

There are, however, a few more scenes that don't quite pop the way they should. A cool self-critique is always floating through this playwright's best work (and if Design isn't quite the cream of Coward, it's still at the bottom of the top drawer). Veloudos, however, elicits this chill only occasionally, and only from Nitter - there's a curious dialogue between Leo and a reporter, for instance, that should hint at a certain vacuum beneath everyone's shiny veneer. The production also doesn't look quite as swank as we'd like; the BCA Plaza Theatre's low ceiling defeats the lighting designer, and I didn't quite buy the set designer's Matisse motif (even if the great painter is mentioned in the play). After all, Coward is about gloss, while Matisse is about grace (and next to Matisse, Coward does look alarmingly second-rate).

Alas, the production also wraps on a slightly sour note; Veloudos doesn't know what to make of the curious finale. Here Coward runs his umpteenth variation on his second best scene: The Bohemians Tell Off the Bourgeoisie. This time, however, Coward presses into service (on the bourgeois side) Otto's art dealer, whom Nigel Gore plays (plausibly, if timorously) as a closeted gay man. This final, blithe irony makes for rather a sketchy sketch, if you ask me: the semi-closeted Coward factotum disses the - er - slightly more closeted Coward factotum. It's perhaps telling that, despite his talent for emotional escape, Coward's dazzling web of personae tripped him up before the final curtain.

Opening weekend

Diego Arciniegas, Susanne Nitter and Gabriel Kuttner in Design for Living

The 2007 theater season begins in earnest this weekend, with Noel Coward's Design for Living opening at the Calderwood (see above) and See What I Want to See by John LaChiusa going up at the Lyric Stage. Design, Coward's 1933 ode to the joy of bisexual ménage, is being produced by the Publick Theater in a rare indoor outing (as it were). The show will feature the cast (and director) of its summer hit Copenhagen, under the direction of Spiro Veloudos, who, intriguingly enough, is the artistic director of (yes) the Lyric Stage. Ah, well, there's nothing like a little healthy competition (even if it's with your own theater!). Meanwhile, the promising See What I Want to See (below) updates the paradoxes of Akira Kurosawa's famous Rashomon.


Andrew Giordano and Aimee Doherty in See What I Want to See