Parker, ‘Performer,’ and Peyote at the Fringe

Carol Lempert’s “That Dorothy Parker” is a competently assembled, crisply produced, scrupulously sincere tribute to a major figure in American letters. What on earth is it doing at the New York International Fringe Festival? As countless theatergoers have learned, frequently to their detriment, the Fringe is generally a lot more comfortable with snickers than salutes. Its favorite son remains the Brecht-in-training-pants “Urinetown: The Musical,” and other transfers have included “Debbie Does Dallas,” “Confessions of a Mormon Boy,” and the naughty “Peanuts” homage “Dog Sees God.” But here comes the petite and clear-eyed Ms. Lempert, who has streamlined the life and writings of Parker — the spunkiest and arguably the saddest member of the Algonquin Round Table — into a dot-connecting monodrama that’s about as Fringe-y as “Thurgood” or “Golda’s Balcony.” This isn’t necessarily a bad thing.