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Snickers over knickers
The Lyric airs Martinís Underpants
BY CAROLYN CLAY

With fame often comes overexposure. But in Steve Martinís The Underpants, which he adapted from German writer Carl Sternheimís 1910 farce Die Hosen, the fame is over exposure. Before the curtain goes up, attractive hausfrau Louise Maske has suffered a wardrobe malfunction: her bloomers fell to her ankles as she strained to watch a passing parade with the king as its main attraction. As the play opens, her blockheaded bourgeois husband, Theo, a civil servant, is berating her over the incident, whose notoriety he fears will bring the luster of scandal to his cherished dullness as a cog in the government machine and possibly lead to his unemployment and ruin.

What actually happens is that a couple of swains, captivated by the dropped drawers, show up dueling to occupy a room the Maskes have recently advertised for rent. As the romantic poet Versati sets out to seduce Louise (with the cheerleading aid of voyeuristic neighbor Gertrude), the sickly barber Cohen vows out of jealousy not to let it happen. And as these two vie for Louiseís attentions right under her husbandís nose, Theo remains obstinately blind, with eyes only for the "reality" he passionately if idiotically advocates. Sternheimís original bristles with social criticism ó some of it more potent in hindsight, since conformist, anti-Semitic Theo is just what the Nazis will have ordered. Martin takes an airier tact, throws in a lot of double entendre and just plain bawdiness ("You deserve something in you at night," one woman counsels another, "besides sauerkraut"), and tacks on a surprise ending reminiscent of Elvisís appearance at the end of Picasso at the Lapin Agile thatís followed by a Dollís House mini-moment for Louise. And he really likes the word "underpants" ó eliminate its many repetitions and the two-hour play would probably be 20 minutes shorter.

The Underpants was commissioned by New Yorkís Classic Stage Company, which produced it in 2002. Daniel Gidron is at the helm of its frolicsome area debut at Lyric Stage Company of Boston (through Feb. 4), where it proves mildly diverting if not what the New York Times pronounced "laugh-out-loud funny." The one thing that does make you laugh out loud is Theo, though heís such a willfully prosaic, chauvinistic nightmare that he probably shouldnít. But played with foolish, not clownish obtuseness by Steven Barkhimer, in whose guise the character is stocky of body and mind, heís irresistible, never more so than when making pronouncements like "I canít change my mind. Iíd have nothing to think."

Martin has taken Sternheimís cruel bourgeois and pushed him over the edge into authoritarian whimsy. Whimsy is also the key to Cristina Todescoís middle-class home, with its dangling daguerreotypes, merry wallpaper, and neighborís entrances and exits through a window. Gidron keeps the farcical action moving jauntily along, though it lacks the over-the-top antic precision that might make it funnier.

Caroline Lawton is a pert if willowy Louise whose never-to-be-satisfied libidinous swoons are not without a certain glaze-eyed primness. Pompadoured Lewis D. Wheeler, a poet dandy in his pressed suit and buttoned boots, captures the will-of-the-wisp artist in Versati, who is more interested in the idea than the reality of seduction. And Neil A. Casey brings his trademark slightly swishy hysteria to haircutting hothouse flower Cohen, who pretends to be "kosher with a C" so Jew-wary Theo will rent to him. Stephanie Clayman heavy-breathes, albeit decorously, as older woman Gertrude, whoís titillated by neighbor Louiseís accidentally notorious, suitor-filled life. And Robert Bonotto, topping a Mel Brooks caricature with David Mametís hair, puts in an appearance as a constipated scientist impressionable enough to be convinced the troublemaking underpants are just a mirage. Like the fleeting fame they inspire.


Issue Date: January 13 - 19, 2006
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