Who Could Blame Him?
Reviewed
5/28/04
by Moss Hart and George S. Kaufmann
Directed by Karen Rolsten
Tempe Little Theatre
The Tempe Performing Arts Center
(480) 350-8388
May 28th - June 13th, 2004
$12.00 - $14.00
Kaufmann and Hart were playwriting geniuses of the early twentieth century theatre. To their credit are some hilarious productions including the famed You Can't Take it With You and The Man Who Came to Dinner. Somewhere in the midst of their spectacular collaboration came George Washington Slept Here, a lighter-weight comedy that ran a mere 173 performance on Broadway just before the start of WWII. Though not a huge commercial success, it went on to become one of their more popular scripts for production by community theatres because of the large cast with lots of kids, the unit set, and the innocuous humor. However, it has slipped into anonymity and is rarely produced these days for the exact reasons that trip up Tempe Little Theatre and director Karen Rolston.
When producing one of the other abovementioned scripts in the twenty first century, it is understood that they will remain in their Depression-era setting. In the case of George Washington Slept Here, the jokes and premise are just as rooted in the era, and one must either do a major revision to modernize it (a no-no according to dear Sam French) or keep it in the past and accept that it's a more obscure museum piece. Rolston has done both and neither at the same time. The result is a production that means to be contemporary, yet retains much of the morality and most of the obscure references of the original script, requiring the audience to take a treacherous leap of faith that fails to deliver. Oh, there are some laughs and one or two good performances, but the biggest discovery of the evening is not an actor or a witty joke, but the realization that fair-to-middling Kaufmann and Hart from the third FDR administration does not translate well in the age of Bush the Second.
Newton Fuller (Kurt Whitman,
pictured right)
wants to escape from Manhattan and live in rural Pennsylvania. Unbeknownst
to his society wife Annabelle (Robin Anderson, right ),
his arty daughter Madge (Terry
Lee Soviero) or her beau Steve (Adrian Villalpandro),
he has bought an ancient farmhouse from local yokel Mr. Kimber (Kelly
Parker). Annabelle is reluctant, Newton is insistent, and they begin
the arduous task of fitting the eighteenth century building with such twentieth
century amenities as indoor plumbing. Besides the money pit throughline,
there's complications that include a visiting theatrical couple (Jerry
Whiting and Heather M. Jubie), a nasty nephew foisted
on the family (Christopher Vehon), a dispute with persnickety
next door neighbor Mr. Prescott (Jack White), and the visit
of rich Uncle Stanley (Gene Galant).
The opening scene is a disaster. It is unclear until the arrival of Madge whether this is supposed to be 1940 or 2004, but her very modern t-shirt finally alerts the audience that we're in the now. Still, even as the production dresses like 2004, with very few instances, like a reference to Green Acres that is dropped in like an anchor, there's little reference to modern day. When a punch line includes The Emperor Jones, you know that everyone under AARP-membership age will not be laughing. Rolston's blocking is very basic, as a cast of 17 limits a lot of choices.
With all of the missteps, there are a couple of things to like about this endeavor. Though she starts off extremely stilted, Anderson eventually warms up and creates an enjoyable character in Annabelle. Whitman's portrayal of Newton is flat throughout, but so is his character arc, so he comes off nebbishy rather than annoying. Parker's rural Pennsylvania Kimber sounds suspiciously like the Pepperidge Farm man, but he deadpans his way through some funny moments. Galant's Uncle Stanley is a snooty hoot, lording over the proceedings, as all wealthy relations tend to do. As Hester the floozy maid, Amanda Victor delivers the right quality of cheekiness. White's Prescott is an eerie impersonation of former theatre critic Max McQueen, and is an enjoyable creation.
The remaining performances are tarnished creations for one reason or another. Don't fault Soviero or Villalpando for their performance problems: trying to turn a 1940s ideal daughter and beau into twenty first century teenagers is like trying to coax a Jitterbug from Eminem. So it is with the other teens lolling about the stage, save for the creepily toothy performance by Marie Jubie. Whiting and the elder Jubie are lost in their grand roles. Whiting is as dashing as a herring, and while Heather Jubie is a bit better, it's still hard to believe her current station as a grand actress driven to summer stock.
Michael Peck's set is nice and adaptable. Once again, the lighting design, this time by Kristen Burkhart, is a minefield of dark spots, and she and Rolston seem intent on placing the action in the darkest areas possible. Bob Nelson's sound design is quite effective, especially the ambient nature sounds. Kelly Perry-Connell's costumes do their best to relocate this dated material into a recognizable present.
I found myself drifting through a lot of the evening, wondering why I wasn't taking the summer off like other of my colleagues. However, an interesting thing occurred near the end of the second act: at the point of madness and drunkenness in a hopeless situation, the actors stopped acting and just were. For about fifteen minutes, they performed their activities with relish, and no one was worried about being presentational. It perked the play up considerably as it headed into its climax, and I found myself wondering where this energy and truth had been for the two hours preceding it. As is, this snippet of time isn't quite enough to recommend it as enjoyable summer fluff, but if the ensemble can find a way to expand that peppiness beyond this one scene, it might at least make George Washington less prone to snoring.
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