Playwright: Georges Feydeau, adapted
by Paxton Whitehead & Susan Grossman
At: Theater Wit at Theatre Building Chicago,
1225 W. Belmont
Phone: 773-327-5252; $24
Runs through: April 20
I've seen many productions in Britain and America of works by the supreme master of French boulevard farce, Georges Feydeau ( 'fay-doe,' 1862-1921 ) . Verbally and physically elaborate in the extreme, his plays are fiendishly difficult for American directors and actors, who generally aren't well-trained farceurs—the very word is French. Feydeau constructs Eiffel Towers out of toothpicks: pull one out and the whole thing collapses, so specific are his stage directions and his dialogue, which shifts between the commonplace, puns and subtle wordplay.
Of a dozen Feydeau productions I've seen, only three have successfully paralyzed audiences with laughter. I've seen the Goodman Theatre helplessly flounder in Feydeau while a university production triumphed. On a scale of 1-10, Theater Wit rates 7.5, which really isn't bad.
OK, plot: A wife takes a married lover. They are trapped in flagrante by a drunk who knows her husband. The couples divorce, the lovers marry, he turns despotically jealous and she begins looking elsewhere again. Along the way: firing guns, a barking dog-man, a tongue-tied orator ( Feydeau was fascinated by speech defects and abnormalities ) and characters who dig their holes deeper every time they speak.
Feydeau writes about a particular class of people in a particular social milieu, Parisian upper-middle-class professionals ( doctors, lawyers, successful businessmen ) , circa 1885-1914. Every attempt I've seen to change the place or era has failed. Fortunately, Theatre Wit stands by Feydeau with a handsome physical show, the stage framed by the beauteous iron-work arches of La Tour Eiffel, and the women gowned in long-lined early 20th-century elegance ( Hang Le and Courtney O'Neill, scenic design; Laura B. Kollar costumes ) .
Feydeau's characters are smug and self-satisfied. The actors playing them must never, ever hint that they know they are funny, yet they are playing comedy which dazzles if done well. Portrayals, then, must be absolutely earnest but light, a neat trick. Under director Jeremy Wechsler, Matt Engle's physical work as a love-befuddled politician, Kevin Theis' dryly frantic cheating husband, Maggie Graham's regally eager wife and other principal players have the right stuff.
So how does this production fall short? Feydeau requires not only lightness but also correct tempo, and the tempo changes. The play's four scenes are paced respectively at a walk, a cantor, an explosive gallop and a trot. Scene I is just fine, but the next three never quite achieve a consistent tempo and the gallop never quite happens. Wechsler is wise not to rush things—a common mistake in farce—but moment-by-moment timings often are a bit off. It's the difference between an amusing show with good chuckles and a house that explodes with laughter, especially in the third scene.
This is very good Feydeau, but great Feydeau is a gift of the gods.