By Marco Torres
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
By Brittanie Shey
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
When Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was first produced in the early '60s, critic Robert Coleman declared it "a sick play for sick people." Prudish as he might sound, Coleman was dead on. Martha and George, the middle-aged vipers at the center of Albee's tour de force, are practically pickled in the poison of their vitriolic marriage. Of course all of us are hiding some sort of psychic sore, some private sickness, from the public eye. This might explain why the 40th anniversary revival of Albee's extraordinary Tony Award-winning play still punches with the power of an enormous fist aimed straight for the place that hurts most. Outlandish, lush and shocking as ever, Albee's gorgeous script is most definitely sick, but it is also one of the most ambitious and psychologically ornate plays in the American canon. And nobody knows this better than Alley Theatre artistic director Gregory Boyd -- his dizzying production has an almost barbaric splendor. As Martha and George verbally tear each other's hearts to shreds, Boyd makes us carefully clutch our own.
From the first volley of insults we know this couple is in trouble. George (James Black) and Martha (Judith Ivey) bang through the door at 2 a.m., drunk from a party at "Daddy's." Martha's father is the president of the small college where George works as a history professor. Despite his marital connection, George has not made much of himself. Disappointed by his underachievement, Martha takes every opportunity to remind him of his failures.
But what this couple does in private is nothing compared to what happens when they get an audience. Once the young, new-to-campus couple of Nick (Ty Mayberry) and Honey (Elizabeth Bunch) pops over for a nightcap, George and Martha's acid tongues begin to burn to the bone. George is none too thrilled to be entertaining at 2:30 in the morning, but he hunches his back against Martha's infantile needling (at one point she even sticks out her liquor-slicked tongue at him), seemingly giving in to her mighty will and the ghost of "Daddy." Of course, George has his own armory of cruelties, and it isn't long before we realize that a night of savage party games has just begun.
The Goat or Who is Sylvia?
Through February 16 at the Alley Theatre, 615 Texas Ave., 713-228-9341. $40-$45.
Albee's set-up is brilliant. No one would stay for Martha and George's assaults unless there was something to be gained, and young Nick radiates the sort of ambition that Martha wants from George. She cuddles up to the broad-chested biologist, reminding him that she's the powerful president's daughter. Intoxicated by her clout, he won't leave the soiree even when the waters turn deadly. Filled with the hubris of youth, he struts his stuff for Martha, only to become a pathetic target whom George ultimately deems a "houseboy." Even Honey, Nick's "mousy," "slim-hipped" wife, who spends a good deal of the night curled up on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor between bouts of vomiting her brandy into the toilet, survives the party with more dignity.
Nick stays for the bloody battle because he dreams of glory; the audience sits through the grotesque three-act war because its story is so gloriously well told. Albee's genius flaunts itself in every sinful turn of phrase, creeps around in the curious secret of Martha and George's child, and gains velocity as character after character falls under the crushing truth of what the playwright has to say about love and hypocrisy. But there is also genius in Boyd's direction. With his demonic flair for the baroque, Boyd helps his flawless cast capture both the flamboyant hysteria and the seething rage in Albee's writing. The result is a world made devastatingly real and deliciously theatrical all at once.
Leading the charge into hell is Ivey's raspy, bull-like Martha. Done up in an off-the-shoulder number (courtesy of expert costume designer Andrea Lauer), the floozy matron swills vodka and squalls about her petty problems, most of which are caused by the lump in the dark suit on the other side of the room. The corruption of Martha's soul vibrates in every gesture Ivey makes, from her spiteful leers toward Nick to the hobbled wailing that erupts once George has his hideous way with her.
Black utterly inhabits the burned-out soul of troll-like George, covering every ache with deadly irony. The actor masterfully captures the bomb that ticks inside George's hard veneer, the Machiavellian power the character will need to launch the third-act attack that will change the rules of war forever.
What is especially exciting in this production is the careful attention Boyd has taken with the roles of Nick and Honey. Mayberry's Nick oozes an oily, muscular greed, and we happily watch him get eaten alive by the much bigger shark in this sewer, Martha. Most surprising is Bunch's Honey. Clearly a force to be reckoned with, Bunch turns the thankless role into a fascinating character. She begins the party with middle-class mask painted on with care, but each glass of brandy peels off a layer of lies. By the end -- after eagerly galloping across the stage for more brandy, dancing alone like a fool and puking her guts out -- she stands on a chair screaming, "Violence! Violence!" Enraptured by the brutal spectacle, she swings her dainty white fists at the air and licks her lips. The image is unforgettable.