The Boys in the Band
A front-page article in the New York Times recently lumped together all of the new productions of gay plays suddenly flooding theaters with the thesis that they were post-AIDS, as if every play written before now was only concerned with that disease.
Off the top of my head, there’s, oh, Torch Song Trilogy, Love! Valour! Compassion!, and Falsettos. But before any of these - before any play with a gay theme that didn’t involve suicide, madness or a horrible crime - there was The Boys in the Band.
It’s amusing to hear people dismiss this play as being "dated" because times have changed so dramatically for us since 1968, when it was first produced in New York, to such high acclaim. It’s like saying that Sophocles’ Philoctetes isn’t relevant because we don’t isolate people with wounds that smell bad; or A Doll’s House doesn’t matter because women can own property now under their own names.
If you’re in doubt, hightail it down to West 26th Street, where the Transport Group hits a homer with a fantastic new production of The Boys in the Band. Oh, it’s relevant all right - in all its nasty, unpleasant and fun glory. The big innovation here is the theater-in-the-more-than-round approach.
We’re inside the apartment of Michael, the host of the birthday party for his frenemy Harold. It’s presumably in the East 50s, but the penthouse allows for spectacular views of the surrounding skyline, including the Empire State Building. The apartment doubles as the theater itself, with the audience spread around in small seating groups. The effect is to bring you right into the action - literally. I had to make sure to keep my feet tucked under my seat, lest I trip one of the actors.
This wouldn’t work, of course, if the production weren’t any good. Fortunately, this one is great. Aside from a very few awkward pauses, Jack Cummings III has directed with the crackerjack timing necessary to deliver lines that immediately became iconic and have remained in the gay lexicon ever since.
"What’s more boring than a queen doing a Judy Garland imitation?" "A queen doing a Bette Davis imitation."
"We must get together. How about a week from Shavuos?"
"Give me Librium or give me meth."
I could go on, but you get the idea.
The biggest problem for any production of Boys is getting beyond the iconic film version, which was one of the few (if any) complete off-Broadway transfers of a cast to film. For the most part, the actors aren’t spooked by their screen personas.
While nearly everyone is pitch perfect, Jonathan Hammond gets special praise for totally inhabiting the nasty soul of Michael, the self-loathing host whose nasty party game takes over the second act. It’s the contrast of the drama of those mind games to the bitchy humor of the first act that makes this play seem formulaic; Cummings’ idea of doing the play without an intermission helps obviate that and integrates the two acts into a seamless whole.
Another cast standout is Kevin Isola, who has the thankless role of the proverbial fly in the ointment - in this case, Michael’s straight college roommate who is having (unexplained) marital problems. Isola takes what can be a two-dimensional part and gives poor Alan a depth of feeling behind his haute-WASP facade.
John Wellmann gives a spin on Emory, the femmiest of the bunch, that markedly differs from Cliff Gorman’s great portrayal in the film. He’s a little bit harder-edged and a lot more acerbic.
The only actor who I felt didn’t re-interpret the role was Jon Levenson as Harold. This isn’t an easy part. Harold is the mirror image of Michael. Anyone who describes himself as a "32-year-old, ugly, pockmarked Jew fairy" you know has some problems. Add anti-depressants, a pot habit and a hated overbearing mother, and you’ve got a lot repressed anger.
But Levenson doesn’t rise above the catatonic, stoned stage; he also plays it too close to Leonard Fry’s film portrayal. I also wish Graham Rowat as the hustler who is Emory’s gift to Harold didn’t look so much like a bottle-blond Sean Penn, but that’s a quibble, and he packs himself tightly enough into his jeans to make us believe that Harold will be happy for a romp.
If you’ve only experienced The Boys in the Band on film, please get down to 26th Street, because the shocking immediacy of Mart Crowley’s genius can only be experienced first-hand. The Transport Group deserves a vote of thanks from New York’s gay community for giving this landmark play the production it deserves. This is the fourth production of Boys I’ve seen, and it comes closest to bringing this group of men on the cusp of great change (in a year, their lives would turn 180 degrees) to life.
The Boys in the Band runs through March 14 only (!) at 37 West 26th Street, penthouse. Phone 866-811-4111 for tickets or go to the Transport Group’s website for more information.
