What can you say about a play that makes you feel sympathy with a goatfucker? If you're offended by that word, don't go to the Golden and watch a brilliantly funny, deadly serious play that so provokes the audience to genuine moral reflection that, night after night, much of the crowd lingers under the marquee for a long, long time -- just talking it over. The Goat is that good.
The comedy -- and for the first hour, however serious it becomes, it is an uproariously funny comedy.
Martin, a magnificently successful architect who has just reached his 50th birthday, tells his lovely wife, Stevie, that he's having an affair with a goat, during a bit of Noel Coward-style schtick they seem to be amusing themselves with. Stevie cracks up. Martin and Stevie not only love each other a lot, they still make each other laugh, hard. As anyone who has heard of the play knows, however, the revelation happens to be a true one. Martin is in love, and in a sexual relationship with, a goat. I must not spoil any more of the plot, because it uncoils to reveal questions no one can have pat answers for: What is love? What does it mean to have an experience so compelling, it cannot be questioned internally?
An insert in the Playbill informs us that The Goat addresses questions of the divine. Audiences make up their own minds about that. It's certainly about what it means to fall in love. Bill Pullman reveals a subtlety I had never noticed when watching him sneeze his way out of Meg Ryan's life in "Sleepless in Seattle" or as the growling, high-flying President in "Independence Day." Mercedes Ruehl keeps expanding her mastery of female disappointment and outrage that was already transparently pure in "The Fisher King." Three months into the run, on a Saturday night (and from a very good $25 last-row seat), these two stars gave the finest Broadway performances I've seen in 35 years of watching plays there. Ms. Ruehl's poise is as impeccable as her freakouts are inevitable. Bill Pullman's conflicted emotions do not so much pull him in two directions as in one, utterly hopelessly unified one. He never wavers. Neither does she. Albee's perfectly-constructed text allows them to play the comedy and tragedy equally straight.
Stephen Rowe and Jeffrey Carlson are equally impressive as the couple's best friend and son, respectively. Rowe's facile moralizing becomes almost imperceptibly hollower as the plot progresses, while Carlson's impassioned, snot-wiping speeches are heartbreakingly true to life. The four actors make a true ensemble. A pure theater experience, with neither ideology nor gimmicks, just a shocking text and a brilliant production.
I recommend the balcony, to appreciate and enjoy how David Esbjornson has staged the couple's arguments. The scenic design underlines the stable, happy, intelligent, and prosperous home we watch unravel.
Southern writer Barry Hannah has said that the best stories are ones the audience finish in their heads. Therefore, if you go see The Goat, which runs only 90 minutes, allow yourself three or four hours for the experience.
