It's Barely a Play

It’s Only a Play at the Schoenfeld Theater

Nathan Lane in It's Only a Play.

            After sitting through the revival of Terrence McNally’s It’s Only a Play, directed by Jack O’Brien, at the Schoenfeld Theater, the primary question in my mind was whether I was having a horrible dream.  The play’s preview performances so far have been entirely sold out.  The names of Mr. McNally (Lips Together, Teeth Apart) and Mr. O’Brien (Hairspray) carry distinct weight.  And most important — certainly for the audiences who have been buying advance tickets in droves — is the star-studded cast, including F. Murray Abraham, Stockard Channing, Rupert Grint, Megan Mullally, Matthew Broderick, and Nathan Lane.  But what a play for the stage reunion of those two celebrated stars of Mel Brooks’ The Producers!  I can’t avoid it — It’s Only a Play is one of the most atrociously written, obscenely uninteresting, and just plain unprofessional Broadway shows I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

            Set at a Manhattan townhouse where playwright Peter Austin (Broderick) is being feted for the opening of his new play by his producer, Julia Budder (Mullally), It’s Only a Play takes place over two and a half live hours as the party guests wait uncomfortably for the reviews, knowing they could make or break the precarious production.  Drug-addicted star Virginia Noyes (Channing) wants to regain her old acclaim, over-praised director Sir Frank Finger (Grint) wants to be grounded with criticism, and Austin’s best friend, washed-up TV star Jimmy Wicker (Lane) and eviscerating critic Ira Drew (F. Murray Abraham) are along for the ride.  A naïve coat boy, Gus (the newcomer Micah Stock), is also there, for some reason.  Sad to say, this promising premise does not deliver on its promise.  Instead, this 1982 play has been drastically rewritten to become a nearly three-hour bout of name-dropping.  Cited by name are the casts and creative teams, respectively, of Matilda, A Delicate Balance, The Elephant Man, The Book of Mormon, The Lion King, The Phantom of the Opera, Mamma Mia, and Wicked (at one point Gus sings a portion of “Defying Gravity,” naturally to deafening applause from the audience but for no apparent narrative purpose).  At one point Nathan Lane, as Wicker, even drops his own name, shocked at the praise for his character’s replacement in a play in his early career.  A critic has noted Harvey Fierstein’s improving of the role.  “Nathan Lane I could have accepted,” notes Wicker wistfully, “but Harvey Fierstein?”  Cue more deafening applause.  Blech.

            But most shocking of all is what seems like a personal attack on the Times’ chief drama critic, Ben Brantley, who is not only mentioned by name but becomes the villain of the piece, subject to destructive name-calling and finger-wagging from the pen of a playwright he’s evidently criticized once too often.  At one point Austin refers to Brantley as a “British ass-kissing twat,” referring to the critic’s fondness for London imports.  The whole thing plays like a decidedly bad edition of Forbidden Broadway.

            Naturally for this sort of play, all the dumb jokes are dutifully told.  Critics are wannabe actors or playwrights, Nathan Lane is effeminate, Rupert Grint is British, actresses do drugs, television is awful, as is Mamma Mia and all jukebox musicals and/or revivals.  (I’ve got to say, after seeing this show I could do with a good revival to wash the bad taste out of my mouth.)  But don’t limit this play just to stupid humor, it goes for stupid pathos, too, invoking the holy spirit of traditional Broadway in ways that come across as both high-minded and ham-handed.  Give us a break.

            The only person involved with this turkey who comes out with his integrity squeaky-clean is that consummate actor, Nathan Lane.  He is so bright, ebullient, and gloriously talented that he can fight through any dreck he’s forced to deliver.  The only tolerable parts of this play come when Mr. Lane is hamming it up.  The rest of the cast is either so quiet they’re indecipherable (Mr. Broderick, Ms. Mullally, Ms. Channing) or trying so hard to seem versatile they come off as over-rehearsed (Mr. Abraham, Mr. Grint, Mr. Stock).

            But the more I think about Nathan Lane, the more I become convinced of something.  At the end of It’s Only a Play, Austin’s show is switched out of its Broadway theater in one night to be replaced by a new one with the same actors, sets, and cast.  Might one do the same with It's Only a Play? Let’s think about our ingredients.  We’ve got Mr. Lane and Mr. Broderick in tuxedos, a leggy blonde (Ms. Mullally), a funnily foreign character actor (Mr. Grint), and a familiarity with the idiosyncrasies of Broadway.  One can’t help but wonder — can’t this crew jettison Mr. McNally’s awful script, and just do The Producers instead?