The Real Thing

The disappointing revival of Tom Stoppard’s THE REAL THING begins with the play itself. A coy look at some naughty theatrical types, none of whom are very real to begin with, is a tough place to start from. This is further complicated by Mr. Stoppard’s exceedingly clever pen, providing us with long-winded characters who carry on their endless patter with pretense.

The principal mouthpiece is Henry, a playwright who is married to Charlotte, but loves Annie. Little able to experience fidelity, Henry finally becomes threatened as his actress wife leaves for an out of town production in which she portrays an older woman, seduced by a young man. The author, a revolutionary who "can’t put two words together" has as much difficulty carrying out an idea as Henry has working out a relationship.

While parallels persist between the play thing and the love thing, no REAL THING ever emerges. The plays’ half-hearted ending, in which Henry and Annie ostensibly settle down is irresolute, and sadly informed.

The British cast offers some fine performances, especially in the two female roles with Sarah Woodward as the calm sophisticated first wife and Jennifer Ehle as the lithe, beautiful Annie. Stephen Dillane as Henry has moments of vulnerability and brittle reality, but he rides through most of the play with the smug self-approbation that characterizes this cliché of a playwright.

That’s This Week on Broadway. I’m Isa Goldberg.