Day in the Death of Joe Egg, A

Some subjects are timeless, and Peter Nichols' 1967 play, A Day in the Death of Joe Egg, about the complexities of being a parent to a severely handicapped child, will never seem dated. But don't expect a profound, heart-wrenching play about the tragedy of Joe Egg, the ten-year-old Josephine, nicknamed by her doting parents who, long ago, decided against institutionalizing or euthanasia. As in life, the incurably brain-damaged child, who has no control over her mind or body, is not the victim; it is her caretaker/parents, and Nichols' more universal focus is on the effects of stress on their marriage.

Bri (Eddie Izzard), is a middle-aged, though incurably boyish, frustrated artist and teacher, whose level of humor is not far above that of the classes he so clearly detests. He harbors a hidden resentment of the responsibility of constant childcare on his needs and the spontaneity of his relationship with Sheila (Victoria Hamilton), a more spiritual earth-mother who is still looking for reasons their child is deformed. Their methods of coping are different. He, the realist, is well trained and conscientious, but his childcare tasks are mechanical, and he fantasizes a life without them; she ever hopeful, still looks for reasons and possibilities. What they do have in common, and what has, up till now, held them together, is the humor with which they approach the subject Nichols's portrayal of a day in their lives, which includes a visit from their well-meaning but hypocritical upscale neighbors, Freddie (Michael Gastion), a former lover of Sheila's who wants to make the child a cause celebre and Pam (Margaret Colin), who cannot bear to even see the child, and a visit from Bri's mother (Dana Ivey) who is off on a tangent all her own, is linear. But what is novel is the way Nichols employs the old British music-hall device of having Bri and Sheila deliver downstage "conversations" with the audience, which provide both historical context and a window into their minds.

One might wonder how much of stand-up comedian Eddie Izzard's extraordinary comic persona would be sacrificed to dramatize a pre-written role. The answer, thankfully, is hardly any. Izzard's "act" relies heavily on timing and body language creating a sort of echo on some statements he utters so that it reverberates and reverberates with each flourish he adds (a double take, a wave of the wrist, etc) and dimensions get deeper and funnier. How lucky is Nichols to have such an enhancement to his script! (This is not a new approach, as Jim Dale played the art in the show's 1975 revival.) Izzard's cerebral humor colors each remark, usually an observation, and it expands in your mind with each nanosecond it hangs there. His burlesque of the German doctor whom he believes botched the birth and facile pastor to whom Sheila runs for answers is both venomous and funny.

While Izzard clearly seizes the energy onstage, Hamilton, less cunning and more sympathetic as Sheila, enjoys a brief tour de force, interpreting Joe Egg's nervous system as an earnest but ineffective switchboard operator at a company called Universal Shafting(!) who, no matter how she connects and interconnects incoming calls, eventually disconnects.

This is a plum role for the two actors who have the luxury of performing in tandem when they interact in "real time" in scripted situations, in their vaudevillian George Burns & Gracie Allen-ish interactions. But they also get a chance at solo monologues directed towards the audience as a plea for understanding and approval. The chemistry between Izzard and Hamilton is evident in the way they seem to challenge each other and throw each other off in their asides to the audience (never in their dramatic scenes). Though it is reportedly scripted, the spontaneous feeling cannot be denied.

Director Laurence Boswell treads the line between comedy and tragedy so deftly, one forgets the clue in the title. Madeleine Martin plays the girl with mechanical efficiency. Dana Ivey is her usual commanding self, but Victoria Hamilton's diction is a bit fuzzy. Es Devlin's quirky set incorporates the humor of the '60s, and Adam Silverman's lighting follows the focus of the characters.

Izzard makes it funny and brave at the same time so that the play's surprise conclusion packs a wallop that adds heft to what was a deceptively light and airy treatment. Although the show's climax comes as a surprise, it is not difficult to accept as, in retrospect, the events of the entire play lead up to it. Comedy is, after all, serious stuff!