Laughter on the 23rd Floor American Stage, 163 Third St. N., St. Petersburg, through Dec. 21. Wednesdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Saturdays-Sundays, 3 p.m. $39. 727-823-PLAY, americanstage.org.
Early in Act Two of Neil Simon’s very funny Laughter on the 23rd Floor, the TV writer Milt comes to the office wearing an all-white suit. When Val, one of his fellow writers, sees him in the outfit, he’s aghast: Doesn’t Milt know that Max Prince, the comedian they write for, hates white suits? After all, “When Max’s father died, they made a mistake and buried him in someone else’s white suit. Max had nightmares about it for years. Half his analysis was about white suits.” Max’s pleasure being all that stands between the writers and the unemployment line, Milt is frantic: Somehow he’s got to get out of the suit before Max arrives and sees him. But it’s too late: Max shows up and for the next few minutes Milt does everything he can think of to disguise his existence, and to claim, when provoked, that he’s wearing “an off-color cream-beige, sort of a taupe antique eggshell.” Because the writing is so silly, and because John Lombardi shows great comic gifts in his portrayal of Milt, this is one of the high points of Laughter.
But it’s also the key to why Neil Simon just doesn’t get the respect that a Joe Orton or even a Chris Durang does.
Because the routine about the white suit is, outside its own framework, utterly meaningless. It refers to no social or psychological dilemma, it invokes nothing about Americans in the 20th or 21st century, it’s just a good gag, like almost everything else in this superficial comedy. True, Simon has his characters here (supposedly in the 1950s) mention some important news items: the McCarthy witch hunt, the death of Stalin, the trial of the Rosenbergs. But naming these things is not the same as writing about them, and Laughter succeeds on the same terms as did Simon’s earliest work: on the basis of its jokes and its depiction of ridiculous characters. The later Simon — the one who accomplished some seriousness in his autobiographical plays Brighton Beach Memoirs, Biloxi Blues, and Broadway Bound — is mostly absent from this late (1993) play. Laughter’s writer wants only to tickle your funny bone.
Which he does pretty confidently. Laughter is based on Simon’s years as a writer for TV comedian Sid Caesar, and puts us in the company of a group of scribes who trade jokes like some couples trade endearments.
There’s Lucas Brickman (the superb Chris Jackson) who’s the stand-in for Simon, and who addresses us directly from his position as a new hire eager for acceptance; and Val Skolsky (the fine Joseph Parra), the Russian-Jewish head of the writing team who hires a tutor to help him say “fuck” and not “fock.” There’s Kenny Franks (the impeccable Larry Alexander) and Brian Doyle (the splendid Brian Webb Russell), and then there’s the lone woman on the team, Carol Wyman (the perfect Lauren Wood), who has a monologue about being a female writer in a man’s world which is the closest thing to social commentary that Laughter ever offers.
And then there are two actors who deserve special mention. Kristian Truelsen plays Max Prince, the neurotic comedian whose moods terrify his helpers and whose displeasure can wreck a career. I’m sorry to say that Truelsen doesn’t quite convince. He seems distracted, uncentered, not a comic genius whose mind is ever reeling with possibilities, but a lost soul, vague and inattentive, only occasionally in focus.
On the other side of the spectrum, Glenn Gover as writer Ira Stone provides such a brilliant, microscopically detailed performance that it occasionally leaves the realm of realist comedy altogether. I’ve seldom seen a comic with as much self-control as the amazing Gover, who stands out so prominently from the rest, he seems to belong to another level of performance.
David Russell directs with a confident grasp of every humorous possibility, and Jerid Fox’s set of the writers’ office is brightly attractive. Kelly Lynn Stukey’s well-rendered costumes could hardly be better, from Max Prince’s undershorts to Milt’s beret and everything in between. Mike Wood’s lights dim when Lucas speaks to the audience, then rise again on chaotic normalcy.
If you don’t mind a mindless escapade, Laughter may be just the play you’re looking for. It’s wonderfully acted (for the most part), beautifully designed, and often hilarious. Consider it escapist theater. And a reminder of paleolithic times, when Neil Simon roamed the Broadway canyons, and to laugh — simply to laugh — was more than sufficient.
This article appears in Nov 20-26, 2014.