Barefoot in the Park at American Stage: Blast from the past

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There are two ways to see Neil Simon's Barefoot in the Park, currently playing in a well-arranged production at American Stage. First, there's the thing itself: a forgettable, unimportant, largely irrelevant bit of fluff with no more to say than "Married couples, be patient with each other." This theatrical sitcom — very much pre-All in the Family — takes two likable newlyweds, imposes a few discomforts on them, and then shows us how they manage to overcome their misunderstandings on the way to happily ever after. The play is charming, sincere, and so mindless that you can comfortably check your intelligence at the door. It's the perfect entertainment for your slightly intrepid grandmother.

But there's another way to see this mild-mannered comedy, and that way's not so upbeat. When Barefoot in the Park opened in 1963, it began the Broadway reign of Neil Simon, a reign which until 1983 and Brighton Beach Memoirs meant that the ideal Broadway hit took no chances, displayed no intellect, and offered one-liners and running gags instead of deep probing and hard-won insight. For at least 20 years, Neil Simon's brand of comedy was Theatrical Success Itself (in 1968 he had four shows running in New York at once), and playwrights with more in their hearts and minds were well-advised to assume that their work would never be taken seriously. This may seem insignificant at present, when Mamet and Kushner and Nottage have the public's interest, but for 20 years or so, if you were a playwright you faced the question: "Oh, do you write like Neil Simon?" If the answer was "no," it followed that you just couldn't matter.

Now, I know there were some exceptions — Edward Albee, for example, managed to establish a serious reputation during these same years — and Simon himself eventually turned to deeper investigations with his autobiographical trilogy. But watching Barefoot in the Park is still a schizoid experience: Can this tame and tepid creature be the dinosaur that murdered so many other viable animals (the play ran on Broadway for almost four years)? The best theater these days is so much better than Classic Simon, it's easy to forget what a giant he seemed in his heyday. Well, see Barefoot and remember. Those were savage times.

The plot is straightforward: Corie and Paul Bratter have just moved into their New York apartment, and they're distressed to discover that the five-floor climb is exhausting, the furniture hasn't arrived, there's a hole in the skylight, and there's a shower but no bath. They're visited by a good-natured telephone installer, a personably flamboyant new neighbor, and Corie's gently critical mother. Corie thinks to set the neighbor and her mother up on a blind date, but that goes awry, and Corie and Paul have an argument that threatens their new marriage. Can real love survive this terrible tiff? Will Mom and Neighbor become an item?

A very strong cast does its level best to make us care. As Corie, Samantha McKinon Brown is a lovable bimbo, unacquainted with Simone de Beauvoir and eager to play house for her young attorney husband. As that husband, Gavin Hawk gives one of his best performances ever, finding everything silly and, yes, lovable in hopeful Paul. As the — you guessed it — lovable telephone guy, Richard Coppinger is superb, and as the almost-lovable neighbor, Brian Webb Russell is suave and not too peculiar. Only Nikki Savitt as Corie's mother Ethel doesn't quite convince of her character's reality, though over time one gets used to her strange way of speaking. John O'Connell's direction nicely finds the middle path between realism and caricature, but Tom Hansen's set is a little too spacious and attractive to suggest the "drabness and coldness" which Simon's script asks for. Trish Kelley's fine costumes easily suggest the '60s, as does T. Scott Wooten's attractive sound design.

Looking through the program for Barefoot, I came across the list of next season's plays at American Stage, and I'm delighted to report that the old, bad Broadway is entirely unrepresented. Shows like the searing August: Osage County and the ambitious Seven Guitars remind me that the Jurassic Age is over and it's okay now to be an artist. So much for The Odd Couple and The Star-Spangled Girl. Next year, Red is coming, and An Ideal Husband. No one's going make you sit through Promises, Promises. No one's going to force you to watch The Sunshine Boys.

Now that's a happy ending.

This article appears in Aug 4-10, 2011.