Playwright: Thornton Wilder. At: Lookingglass Theatre, 821 N. Michigan. Phone: 312-337-0665; $30-$60. Runs through: April 5
This is the second of three productions of Our Town scheduled this season, which are two too many. The play is virtually indestructible, and although familiar it never breeds contempt. Still, Lookingglass and Writers' Theatre ( running the third production that is yet to come ) programmed Our Town knowing that The Hypocrites produced an astonishing award-winning version of the play last year. ( It is now playing Off-Broadway to splendid reviews. ) When The Hypocrites revived it last September, the other troupes still had time to change their seasons. Similar to Steppenwolf's decision to stage the much-produced Art ( now running ) , and Court Theatre's upcoming commercial thriller, Wait Until Dark ( which begins previews March 5 ) , it's a waste of human and fiscal resources—something so unnecessary as to negate any excuse.
That being said, the Lookingglass production is earnest, respectful, unshowy, capably acted, beautifully lit and entirely pleasant. But it's neither particularly distinguished nor distinctive except, perhaps, in certain elements of design, such as designer Janice Pytel's natural toned linen and cotton costumes for everyone, which give the show a very summery feel.
Lookingglass uses mostly veteran ensemble members in the cast, so teenage roles—and the show has at least six—are played by actors in their 40s, among them David Schwimmer as a husky George Gibbs. It's not the usual convention for Our Town, but it works because the production is consistent about it. You may not like the choice, but that's a different matter. By and large all the performances are played with assurance and are decidedly understated, as co-directed by Anna D. Shapiro and Jessica Thebus. Indeed, there are beats that may be too understated, undercutting potential comedic moments and some of this complex play's darker human currents.
The production has considerable physical warmth to fit its elegiac tone. There are the soft and comfy costumes, J. R. Lederle's frequently chiaroscuro lighting, and scenic designer John Musial's imagining of the theater's ceiling as God's Attic. Hanging no lower than the lighting instruments are hundreds of scraps of small-town life in 1901-1913: tables, chairs, lamps, dresses, dolls, doors, bicycles, bathtubs, carpets, coffins, baby carriages, etc. They dangle from the ceiling because Our Town—as you probably know—is played without scenery. But the audience only notices the impressive collection at intermissions. During the show, the focus is down below.
I have nothing bad to say about this production, which had its usual teary-eyed effect on me and most other audience members. Laura Eason's Emily Webb, Joey Slotnick's youthfully avuncular Stage Manager, Andrew White's sly Mr. Webb and Schwimmer's aw-shucks George are easy to take. I just wish this version had something compelling about it, convincing me that there is a reason and purpose for another production of Our Town.
