‘House of Blue Leaves’

Press, 1 September 1986, Page 8

‘House of Blue Leaves’

“The House of Blue Leaves,” by John Guare, directed by Stewart Robertson for the Riccarton Players. At the Mill Theatre, from Saturday, August 31. Running time: 8.30 p.m. to 10.40 p.m. Reviewed by John Farnsworth.

Guare, an off-Broadway contemporary of Sam Shepard’s, is a considerable presence in American theatre, but relatively unknown in New Zealand. This play, which in 1971 lifted him to public attention, clearly demonstrates why. It is a savage, largely autobiographical work, booby-trapped with episodes of black comedy. It is, as he intended, an unpredictable alliance of Strindberg and Feydeau. It makes it a difficult play to perform. The Riccarton Players are to be congratulated for attempting something as ambitious as this, but it is clearly beyond them. What we get is a production of uncertain tone which only fitfully seizes on the vitality at the heart of Guare’s writing. At those moments, the production comes alive, but otherwise it appears dis-

tinctly underpowered.

To some extent, this is understandable, because the obstacles provided by a complicated plot are formidable. Artie Shaughnessy, a New York zookeeper, longs to be a famous song-writer. He is egged on by his ambitious, food-struck mistress, Bunny. His hopes lie with his former schoolboy friend, Billy Einhorn, now a Hollywood producer. His misery lies with his made wife Bananas. A series of turning points arrive with the Pope’s visit to New York, the return of his military son to bomb the Pope, and the entrance of three nuns desperate to sight the Pope on TV. What energises this odd combination of events is the desolation of his existence, and the paradoxically theatrical presentation with rapid exists and entrances, long addresses to the audience and many tuneless snatches of familiar Broadway melodies. The absurdity was further heightened in this performance by breathily audible commands from a backstage intercom system.

The three principals

catch something of the latent intensity of their roles, but they often seem uneasy with the sharp shifts of register and attitude demanded of them. Pearl Carpenter captures something of Bunny’s venal quality, and Pip Stevens makes us believe in Bananas’s odd, lopsided world, although she looks far too young. Max Sullivan’s Artie is both beaten and desperate, but he often looks strained in this big role, and his best moments are the quieter scenes as with Bananas.

Among the smaller parts, Matthew Chamberlain produces an excellent cameo as the Shaughnessy son, and Lynn Booth is an amusingly deaf visitor.

The play is deceptively non-realistic and refuses to succumb to just the very sensible direction which is receives here. The result is a dullish first act, an excitable second and a confused third, and a failure to tap Guare’s essential vitality. Yet, it is to .the company’s credit that it tried, and that it could give a sense of how the play might genuinely resonate if things really fell into place.