Patrick Page is a ruggedly handsome actor with a deep, commanding voice. John Cullum is a revered theater legend. It’s hard to imagine either of them dressed up in a pretty frock and ready to assume a decidedly female identity. But at the Chevalier d’Eon, anything is possible. For this Catskill Mountain resort, based on an actual hotel, is a refuge for men who yearn to express their feminine side; dressing in women’s clothing is more than a compulsion, it’s a need to connect with a deeper truth.
George/Valentina (Page) is struggling to hold onto the cross-dressers’ financially imperiled haven at all costs. His wife, Rita (Mare Winningham) is practically a saint. She greets the guests with effortless compassion, making the newbies like Jonathon/Miranda (Gabriel Ebert) feel at ease, and welcoming the stalwart regulars like Terry (Cullum) and Bessie (Tom McGowan) back to their spiritual home. There’s an air of merriment and sublime relaxation, as the presumably heterosexual men strip off their starched collars and laced shoes, and slip into something which, for them, is a lot more comfortable.
Beneath the festive surface lurks an undercurrent of danger and doubt. George has been summoned by the postal authorities to answer for smutty pictures which may or may not have been sent to him. In order to shore up finances so the resort can continue, he knows he must secure the help of wealthy Charlotte (Reed Birney), who runs an upscale magazine for transvestites and has an agenda all her own.
It’s here that Casa Valentina runs into difficulty. Although we’re assured “there’s no black or white, only shades of gray,” author Harvey Fierstein trusts neither his audience nor his talented ensemble to get across his message with any degree of subtlety. Rather than being presented as a leader who sees the future of her cross-dressing sorority on the brink of scandal and disaster, Charlotte is a bigot and a scoundrel. The brilliant Mare Winningham should be given a full-blown speech explaining how and why she puts up with her difficult and unusual circumstances. Does she feel trapped? Frustrated? Is she ready to walk away?
This is Harvey Fierstein’s first play in over 25 years, and he is wise to have it presented by the venerable Manhattan Theater Club. But he’s made a better pitch for empathy with his book for the musical Kinky Boots, which is far more outrageous, and much more emotionally satisfying. Casa Valentina loses momentum when the show goes on too long preaching and testifying to an audience which wouldn’t be there in the first place were it not composed of members who already agree with the basic premise of individual freedom. It’s a scene made palatable by the always-stellar Cullum verbally striking a blow for tolerance.
Fierstein has made an interesting choice by setting the action in 1962. This was arguably the last year of American innocence, with the Kennedy assassination and the Vietnam War still in the near future. There’s an idyllic quality to the play which reflects this tranquility, just as it also explains a finger-wagging preoccupation with anything beyond the pale of established society.
Many important questions go unaddressed. Is it necessary for cross-dressers to assume a female persona? To what degree would a homosexual man be accepted in the community? Why is the daughter (Lisa Emery) of the Judge/Amy (Larry Pine) appearing at the resort for the first time, and how much does she actually know about her father’s secret life? If the cross-dressing men feel the need to deceive their wives and families about their vacations in the Catskills, to what degree are they lying to themselves and to those around them?
Director Joe Mantello uses the stage to full advantage, carefully delineating the kitchen and dressing areas, and creating a real sense of a summer garden. Special kudos must go to Jason P. Hayes (wig, hair, and makeup design) and Rita Ryack (costume design). A nod also to the haunting original music by Fitz Patton.
The ending is ambiguous; audience members may read into it what they will. But any play that features a fabulous makeover, moustache-twirling blackmail, and John Cullum gliding across the veranda in pearls and heels certainly deserves a place on every dedicated theatergoer’s dance card.
