Elizabeth the Beautiful
Honoring the eightieth anniversary of the venerated Elizabeth Taylor’s birth, the Ringwald Theatre has concocted a two-production repertory package enthusiastically entitled LIZ-A-PALOOZA! Whereas one of the plays is old, the other is brand new: playwright Kim Carney’s Elizabeth the Beautiful, a one-act flight of biographical fancy. Featuring Joe Bailey in the title role and with direction by Bryan Lark, this world-premiere satire takes the form of an acrimonious skewering, a taunting walk of shame followed by an eleventh-hour scrabble for redemption.
The Elizabeth Taylor of this play is not the striking doe-eyed ingénue of the mid-twentieth century; rather, 1978’s incessantly divorced scandal maker is holed up in restorative seclusion, her relevance reduced to being cruelly mocked on TV. Bailey lays Elizabeth’s vitriol on thick, portraying a woman so far down that from her vantage point, her life seems like the lonely, worthless worst. Yet intervention arrives in the form of a bit of pastry in the windpipe — clearly, fate or something has conspired to teach her a lesson. Thrust into an ambiguous netherworld, Elizabeth the obstinate is greeted by her twice-husband Richard Burton (Mike McGettigan), an upright fall-down drunk and here a spirit guide of sorts through the many disappointing scenes of her romantic history.
One could call them the Ghosts of Husbands Past — Carney practically does, her characters openly disparaging the timeworn device even as the plot repeatedly returns to the well. Beyond Elizabeth and Richard, every other character is played by Patrick O’Connor Cronin, who brings the varying self-centeredness of wealth, fame, and malaise to a bullpen of matrimonial partners. Curiously, not all the husbands even appear, a clear low point explained away in hokey logic with all signs pointing to the playwright not being willing or able to fit the material in. Early partners bring interactions of new love and marriage proposals, and the timelines gradually shift in parallel so that the bloom is off the rose in later scenes. The vignettes play out essentially in a vacuum; Katie Orwig’s scenic design functions strictly as a backdrop, save for transitional trips to the liquor cart. The combination of lighting (Joe Plambeck) and sound (Lark and Orwig) makes for some florid effects, but in their absence, the characters’ minimal interaction with their surroundings lends the play an aimless sense of hurtling through space.
The directionless surroundings, in tandem with the irascible hopelessness of the pathetic protagonist, begin to suggest that this play doesn’t know what it wants to accomplish, other than making cheap shots at the long-maligned personal life of a public personality. A blowsy, over-the-top font of comic fodder, Bailey demonstrates a keen ability to turn the jokes inward on his character, becoming the vanguard of Elizabeth mockery from within. However, the material’s schizophrenic nature is not so easy to corral: the playwright seems to seek empathy for the woman people only view skin deep, yet gives the poor little pretty girl a turd of a reprehensible personality, hardly poised to win over the viewer. McGettigan’s Richard tempers his carelessly vicious jabs with moments of woozy patience and gentle affection, and his character gains further dimension in rewarding, warm reminiscence when it’s his turn to step in as the husband of the moment. Cronin’s eager character work is a bright spot of the production, in particular his greasily suave Eddie Fisher, and the best of Vince Kelley’s costume design comes out in this revolving door of distinctive styles. The actor also has a major turn in the dark concluding scenes of Elizabeth’s future, returning to appeal for a beneficent transformation. Although clumsily explaining “future” events that have been in the audience’s consciousness for decades is as awkward as it sounds, Cronin and Bailey are at their best together in the emotive opportunities that follow.
What Lark and company want the viewer to understand about Elizabeth Taylor doesn’t make itself apparent in Elizabeth the Beautiful; moreover, what Carney hopes to convey about her subject appears no less lopsided or out of joint. Launching methodical nastiness toward the central character, this careening show mocks a woman at length for holding facile romantic notions that confused beauty, attraction, and love, then stops dead just in time to teach an important lesson — although what one has to do with the other is anyone’s guess. For viewers seeking laughter from the depths of ridicule, this piece of tabloid derision offers it in abundance; those expecting homage or compassion in this supposed tribute may find this to have too little, too late.
March 9, 2012