The saddest bad relationships are the ones that started out golden.
For years I thought David Mamet was the best playwright in the country. If you asked me, Glengarry Glen Ross was the last word on American capitalism, a scorching, merciless look at what happens when no other ethic has primacy. Speed-the-Plow was a brilliant investigation of the ways our most trusted peers drive us to be worse than we want to be, and Oleanna was a mind-blowing illustration of the infinite interpretability of human action. Even Mamet's lesser plays, from the gently humorous Duck Variations to the almost-dazzling American Buffalo, had moments of splendor, and the failures — The Woods, The Cryptogram, The Old Neighborhood — were useful experiments in his signature minimalism.
Then something happened. Maybe it was too much crowd-pleasing work in the movie business, maybe it was artistic exhaustion. But Boston Marriage was a grandiloquent soap opera, a renunciation of his hard-won style, and Romance had so much cheap slapstick, it seemed the work of another writer. For unclear reasons, Mamet was losing his famous grip. If he'd written only plays like these over the years, no one ever would have heard of him.
And now there's November, the trivial, silly sitcom currently appearing at American Stage. This is not a play but a TV show in search of a laugh track, a series of meaningless and conventional jokes that's not nearly as interesting as most episodes of All in the Family. Instead of four-letter words as signs of the violence behind human discourse, we get the f-word for chuckles. Instead of original characters caught in a web of fear and greed, we get stock figures whose only real need is a new one-liner. No, this can't be a David Mamet play. Say it ain't so.
Here's what's on offer: It's the last week before Election Day, and President Charles Smith is a sure loser. What he needs most of all is money for commercials, but his poll numbers are so low, nobody's contributing. Then he has an idea: If he can get the National Association of Turkey Manufacturers to cough up $200 million, he can get back in the race. With Thanksgiving coming, the turkey people need him — and if they don't come along, he'll deem pork the official Thanksgiving food. He tells his speechwriter, Clarice Bernstein, to write him a pivotal address, but she won't do the job unless he marries her to her female partner. He demands the loot from the turkey people, but their last contribution was only $50,000. Will the manufacturers ever get President Smith to "pardon" their turkeys? Will Bernstein get married? Will Native American Dwight Grackle get his casino on Nantucket?
If this sounds like the material for a fun, meaningless romp, well, that's right — only the image of the corrupt president feels half-a-century old (like an old Milton Berle sketch), and every scene with the turkey guy could have occurred on I Love Lucy. That's what's so distressing about November: it's not that Mamet is writing comedy, but that his comedy is so unworthy of his talent. Even the lesbian theme doesn't lift the cobwebs off the dramatic architecture, and a genuinely humorous visit from Grackle late in act two is just that, too late.
Are the five performances excellent? Yes, and that still can't make this extended skit seem contemporary. Sure, Michael Edwards as President Smith sputters and frets with perfect timing, and Wayne LeGette as aide Archer Brown is impeccably cynical. Chris Rutherford as the turkey rep could have walked out of a show starring, oh, Dom DeLuise, and Sarah Gavitt as Bernstein is super-serious in just the way that fine comediennes have been from Hazel to Mary Tyler Moore. There is that belated visit from Grackle — played wonderfully by Giles Davies — and there are even some late hints that Mamet's serious about the right of lesbians to marry. But it's far from enough. On Jessica Thonen's beautifully rendered Oval Office set, these characters say less than Edith Bunker ever did about life, politics, Thanksgiving. Flawlessly directed by Greg Leaming, they're still terribly cliché.
David Mamet, is it true? Are there really no second acts in American life? Wasn't it you who said that good playwrights throw out what bad playwrights keep?
A former fan has to confess: November is a waste of time.
And he doffs his cap in remembrance of a late, lamented genius.
