Titillating Broadway Audiences with Bad Language
That playwright Stephen
Adly Guirgis has named his sole female characters Veronica and Victoria in The Motherfucker with the Hat should be
taken as a sign for how little these two women interest him, except as
catalysts for some bad behavior from their husband and boyfriend. We learn a
lot about the tenuously sober Jackie and his childhood, and we certainly hear a
great deal about Jackie’s sponsor Ralph’s blinkered worldview, but neither
woman ever feels real—even when being brought to fiery, raging life by
actresses of Elizabeth Rodriguez and Annabella Sciorra’s talent.
Rodriguez is Jackie’s
lifelong, on-again, off-again girlfriend Veronica, given an audience-pleasing
ghetto-talk monologue by Guirgis to open the play. Right away, problems with
the tone seem to loom. Veronica hasn’t quit her vices, as Jackie has, and so as
she yells at her mother for drinking too much, she’s snorting up cocaine on the
bed, earning a riotous laugh. Nothing like being an enabler to garner a
chuckle!
That disconnect between the
palpable unhappiness of addicts who mourn the loss of what they once used to
blunt the pain of life, and the treatment of their addictions, mars the entire
play—especially in Chris Rock’s performance. The comedian proves himself a less
than riveting actor as sponsor Ralph, who fights his urges by being as
sickeningly healthy as possible, to the chagrined boredom of his wife Victoria
(Sciorra). But Rock lacks the chops (and, opposite Bobby Cannavale, the
charisma) to make Ralph seem like anything other than a flimsy construct being
brought to life at the cast’s first table read. And in the laughably tentative
climactic fight scene between Ralph and Jackie, Rock’s signature comedy style,
of faux rage at what he sees as the truth, jeopardizes Guirgis’ story. Ralph
advocates a cynical philosophy of mutual fucking over, and because Rock has
finally warmed up to his character, we’re tempted to buy it. Suddenly,
Cannavale’s Jackie seems like a square for expecting things like monogamy and
friendship from life.
Director Anna D. Shapiro,
who vividly brought to life the bad behavior in August: Osage County, here seems intent on keeping the actors and
their emotions behind a pane of glass. No one pauses for a laugh line, instead
barreling on through the script and letting the audience’s roar drown out their
next line. There’s a constant struggle to connect with someone, anyone, on
stage, even as characters pour out their hearts to one another—an accurate
representation of the characters’ inability to truly connect with one another,
but one that makes for a frustrating viewing experience.
Sciorra has a lovely scene
as the angry and stoned Victoria, managing to make her seem like an
identifiable woman, even as she whines that she gave up her career to marry
Ralph. God forbid Guirgis write a female character who does something other
than wait at home for her man to arrive; we never see Victoria or Veronica
outside of their respective homes. Ralph and Jackie get to gallivant around,
circling danger like kids in a playground brawl, but unless there’s a man
around, Victoria and Veronica presumably just sit and twiddle their thumbs. At
least they get to do it on what is easily the best set currently on Broadway,
from Todd Rosenthal. Watching a couch repeatedly rotate 180 degrees from
beneath the stage is more exciting than these men and women, addicted in equal
measure to drugs, disappointment and unlikely verbal pyrotechnics.
Through July 17, Schoenfeld
Theatre, 236 W. 45th St. (betw. Broadway & 8th Ave.), 212-239-6200;
$66.50–$131.50.
If you need a hotel room near the Schoenfeld Theatre, visit New York Hotels.