Noel Coward’s comedy of mannerisms, Present Laugher, is primed with, or rather saved by, the brilliance of one actor whose talent and instincts catapult him beyond the deficiencies and inefficiencies that otherwise define this mostly insufferable revival. Bravo over and over again to Kevin Kline who avoids the excesses that marred the last revival about Garry Essendine the idolized, incredulously narcissistic middle-aged matinee idol. In this unconscionably dull production, that is, except for the decor-indulged setting (David Zinn) and the period-informed costumes (Susan Hilferty) that are pre-determined to rise above the play’s more ironically guarded (in 1939) rewards, it is the star, not the play, that benefits the most. The overall misguidance of the play and misalliance of the players by director Moritz Von Stuelpnagel (Hand to God) has turned this once fastidiously sly and amusing, if meticulously veiled, romp into an all-out fiasco. To its sole credit, it purposefully avoids the high camp farce that we got on Broadway twenty-one years ago with Frank Langella. Except for his well-executed, if outlandish, entrance/confrontation with a stair-railing, Kline also obliges with a performance that generously reeks of self-adulation while also avoiding the hammy excesses that Coward would undoubtedly have eschewed given a character he wrote as a mirror of himself. This is a production, however, in which the play’s core of innuendo and suspicions has also been sacrificed? The regrettable pursuits and relentless retreats that identify Essendine’s dizzily entwining sexual intrigues are still intended to be fun to watch and listen to, as they remain enigmatic. Unfortunately the supporting cast is definitely not fun to watch and seem awkwardly at odds with each other as well as with the play itself. The problems begin and remain with the supporting players who seem to have wandered in from some theatrical universe where high comedy and low comedy are interchangeable. Biggest offender is Bhavesh Patel as the grotesquely posturing, close to maniacal, playwright perilously enamored of Garry. He seems to have stepped out of another time and place, as does the usually delightful Kristine Nielsen, who keeps her now-familiar mannerisms to a minimum to get the maximum mileage out of her role as Garry’s snippy devoted secretary. But she, too, seems to be among the misplaced persons that surround the ever-preening Garry. It is a joy, however to see how this particularly attractive Garry (not far removed from the airs identified with suave cinema legend Ronald Coleman) confronts the various callers and colleagues, romantic or otherwise in his London apartment with an overriding air of nobless oblige. This, on the eve of his embarking on a repertory tour of Africa. Not one of the supporting cast appear to have either that almost ingrained latitude, style, tone, or the will and perseverance to compete with Kline. Kate Burton comes on and stays on with her usual level of unexceptional competence as Liz, Garry’s wifely, never divorced but now in name only his personal and social guardian. Even looking less secure and more uncomfortable among the usually obligatory attitudes of Coward-land are Reg Rogers and Peter Francis James as Garry’s chummy business associates. Except for looking chic and provocative in the knock-out black dress designed by Susan Hilferty, Cobie Smulders otherwise confirms that there is less here than meets the eye as a manipulating married seductress. Also unconvincing in the extreme are Tedra Millan as an infatuated debutante and Ellen Harvey as the almost incoherent, chain-smoking Swedish maid. Quite unexpectedly was Matt Bittner the least guilty of misplaced Cowardly aplomb as Garry’s valet. And what on earth is this intimate, facile and brittle play doing in the massive St. James Theater? Perhaps it is noblesse oblige that keeps one from saying any more.
