Screwball farce only works with a fever pitch built from a slow burning snowball. Circumstances need to pile up, with only a single, hilarious evolution towards a fabulously silly conclusion. On paper, Ken Ludwig’s Lend Me A Tenor, is not really a perfect farce. Its got the elements, but its first act fundamentally does not move the snowball down the hill with any real momentum. And the characters are fundamentally two-dimensional in a way that doesn’t necessarily help the play along.
However, in the revival directed by Stanley Tucci, the centrifugal force of the final act is so well driven, that the show ends up being a delight. Tucci has been a part of many a poorly written script, and its nice to know he knows it. His acting talents have often been wasted, but his flair for detail and humor carries through in his first Broadway directing effort.
And he debuts with a cast of his friends, most notably including Tony Shalhoub and his wife Brooke Adams. (That’s Shalhoub’s wife, not Tucci’s.) Also on board are Broadway vets Jan Maxwell, Mary Catherine Garrison, Jennifer Laura Thompson, Anthony LaPaglia, and Jay Klaitz. Making his Broadway debut to round out a generally solid cast is Justin Bartha, who’s better known for his bland film work.
Essentially, the play is a heaping dollop of stereotype. There’s a grumpy, bombastic opera house manager, the surprisingly capable assistant, the ingenue who loves the star, a diva looking for success, a sassy bellhop, an insanely overindulgent opera star and his fashionista wife. There’s not much to work with as characters, and each of the performers does the best she/he can to override the missing subtlety with a sense of the ridiculous.
Jan Maxwell explodes dynamically as the wife of Anthony LaPaglia’s star tenor, using a ridiculous “its-a too-a late-a” Italian accent to hilarious effect, owning every moment she’s onstage. For me, she walked away with the evening. LaPaglia has a tough time, given that his role in the first act is so weak, but his deadpan delivery as his confusion escalates in the second is delightfully insane that he represents himself quite well.
I wasn’t as taken with Bartha’s performance (compared to, say, Elizabeth Vincentelli), but he was fine. He was overshadowed by his intended paramour, Garrison, who proves yet again (after a marvelous job in the undervalued Top Girls from a few seasons ago) that she deserves meatier roles. Her part here is something of a token, but she’s memorable – which is saying something. Shahloub overdoes it, playing to the crowd across the street, and just played it too broadly for my tastes (much like Charles Isherwood, who surprisingly found no redeeming value in the show).
Adams and Thompson are fine, but, frankly, ended up being uninteresting despite well intentions. Adams makes a great entrance, but is given very little else to do. Thompson is left with almost nothing to do at all, and is wasted by the writing. Both of these roles are hit hardest by the meagerly written play, but, well, that’s not entirely unexpected.
Klaitz steals a few moments as the put-upon bellhop who’s obsessed with opera. He gets a few sassy zingers in, and some great physical comedy to balance it out. As with the other performers, its the execution here that works more so than anything on the page.
Overall, the show’s simply a night of fun. The first act goes on about thirty minutes too long, but the farcical pace of the door-slamming conclusion is absolutely delightful. Nothing severe, not as laugh-out-loud as Noises Off, but still a good time. And isn’t that worth a shot?
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