Death Defying Acts
This evening of one-acts is either a testament to the playwrights’ talents or an indictment of the flaccidity of modern American drama: Woody Allen, David Mamet, and Elaine May have more work of value at the bottom of their drawers than other contemporary playwrights have at the top of theirs. And though the twilight years of Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller may provide an argument for enforced early retirement in the theater world, “Death Defying Acts” persuasively and entertainingly argues the contrary. At least two of these three thematically related one-acts provide convincing evidence that inspiration does not necessarily end at age 50.
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It’s remarkable that the shows work as well as they do, however, given that the playwrights’ recent output for the silver screen is questionable. May’s workmanlike screenplay for The Birdcage has its share of easy yuks but lacks the wit of A New Leaf, the tension of Mikey and Niky, and the sheer giddy chutzpah of Ishtar. Mamet’s The Cryptogram, produced here last year in an excellent Steppenwolf production, is a chilling and effective exercise, but neither it nor his flat screen adaptations of American Buffalo and Glengarry Glen Ross equals the work he produced at his best, more than ten years ago. And whoever nominated Allen’s underdeveloped, laughably unrealistic Mighty Aphrodite (which featured Allen as a sportswriter who somehow dined every evening at New York’s top-dollar Le Cirque) for a screenwriting Oscar should have had their heads examined for signs of extraterrestrial life. But if nothing else, the sprightly, caustic production of “Death Defying Acts” by SummerNITE (a professional ensemble sponsored by Northern Illinois University) proves that rehashed Elaine May is better than top-of-the-line Mike Nichols, that third-rate Mamet is better than, well, fourth-rate Mamet, and that Bailiwick artistic director David Zak can do a better job of staging Woody Allen than Allen has done himself.
The clipped, percussive dialogue is distinctly Mamet’s, but here it has all the profundity of a 20-minute Emerson, Lake and Palmer drum solo: the beats are in the right places, but they lack meaning. The whole effort ends with a cheap, predictable lawyer joke. Even so, in the same way one might delight in the latest inferior album by a great musician, there’s a certain pleasure in once again hearing the Mametian rhythms. And Zak’s production, featuring a particularly intelligent and self-assured performance from Eric Kramer as the attorney, maximizes what humor there is in the script.
Realizing the strength of the material he’s been given, Zak delivers a fast-paced, delightful production of Central Park West. His ensemble–led by a feisty Alexandra Billings, an unself-consciously insensitive Eric Kramer, and the wonderfully loopy Tom Groenwald–rips through Allen’s play with verve and self-assured precision. This offering alone would be worth the price of admission, demonstrating the talent of a playwright who, even if he isn’t at the top of his game, is over the top of most everyone else’s.
