'Private Lives': No Laughing Matter
Playbill Cafe's Tight Quarters Cramp Noel Coward's Style

By Nelson Pressley
Special to The Washington Post
Saturday, September 1, 2007

It's tough to be really ritzy in the backroom of a bar, but the Washington Shakespeare Company gives it a prosaic try with its oddly sober "Private Lives."

There seems to be no place for laughter in the tiny 1409 Playbill Cafe, which designer Richard Montgomery overstuffs with swanky French sets. A French hotel, of course, is where Elyot and his ex-wife, Amanda, unexpectedly meet on their honeymoons with newer, younger spouses.

The old flame quickly flickers anew between Elyot and Amanda, a pair of hard-boiled sophisticates who recall why they were once in love -- and, every bit as vividly, why they split. Thus begins their stylish love-hate tango as Noel Coward's flippant comedy ignites with bright and bruising dialogue.

Except the spark is smothered in this production, and not just by the tight quarters.

Among other things, "Private Lives" is a showcase for actors who can bring passion and bite to Coward's brand of high-gloss, smashup romance. Elyot and Amanda swoon together like lovebirds and then slice each other to bits -- gad, what fun!

Bruce Alan Rauscher and Cam Magee nail the fascinatin' rhythm but miss the infectious tune; too often their byplay ends up clangorous. Rauscher's reserve frequently comes off like indifference until he's pushed to bellowing, of which a little goes a long way in this space. And though Magee's Amanda is as feral in pleasure as she is when riled, her hair-trigger braying seems closer to "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" than "Private Lives."

There is also the matter of species: Compared with their plaintive new spouses, Elyot and Amanda are far more evolved in Coward's Darwinian view of love. But that difference isn't given a lot of distinction here. Rauscher and Magee don't have significantly more panache than Megan Dominy's Sibyl or Jeremy Lister's Barrymore-ish Victor (who at times seems like the most sensible figure in the play, suggesting that things are badly out of balance).

Dominy makes some decent stabs at flighty comedy, but from the earliest moments the audience loses the habit of laughing, so her punch lines fall flat. So do Rauscher's and Magee's, and so do the musical interludes with Barbara Papendorp singing moody tunes behind a sheer black curtain.

The production is awfully eager, but it whiffs at Coward's puckish glee and enduring finesse.