White-Collar Workers of the World Unite

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The New York Sun

The class system hides many tragedies in its recesses. Wretched souls cry out, not knowing that simple choices can lift them into a life of self-reliance and confident joy. Thank heaven for W. Somerset Maugham, who in the 1920s set down a recipe for the redemption of those most benighted. Oh, the secret pain of stockbrokers and the terrible burden of luxury and entitlement! Rich men: Follow Maugham to freedom – you have nothing to lose but your flannels!


In the Keen Company’s new production of “The Breadwinner,” Maugham’s rallying cry for the, um, incredibly well-off, one man does successfully break his chains. He even punches through his top hat, which, judging by the horrified gasps, is a bit like lobbing an ax into the family television set. And at first, we root for him. His children are pampered lapdogs, his marriage is a hollow fiction – why not toss a spanner in the works and start over?


Maugham’s logic, though, eventually starts to show its cracks. He wildly romanticizes labor (his hero sounds very chipper about becoming a traveling salesman – and we theatergoers know how that will turn out), and he refuses to pencil in a single shade of gray. In fact, the first scene of “The Breadwinner” is costumed in blinding white.


Tricked out in their tennis togs, two sets of siblings lounge and banter their way through the day. No grass stains mar their snowy sweater-vests; there is no mark of work on these bright young things. They discuss the uselessness of the middle-aged (except as obliging banks) and the infinite perfection of the young. And they come by such greedy self-absorption honestly. When their mothers enter, we see them confident in their superiority over their husbands. Margaret Battle (Alicia Roper) and her dear friend Dorothy (Jennifer Van Dyck) spend money lavishly almost as a favor to the pathetic old dears.


Charles Battle (Jack Gilpin), though, has just met ruin – and he thinks he likes it. With his business destroyed, he has an unexpected chance at ditching his place in the stockmarket and striking out for rarer country. Slaving for the leisure of an ungrateful family has taken its toll, so when the opportunity arises, he announces his intention to bolt.


It’s little wonder that director Carl Forsman is keen on this play – it’s got zingy flapper-age patter, it’s rich in marvelous roles, and its anti-wealth message hasn’t gotten tired over the decades. But even after a rollicking first half, the company finds this old chestnut tough to crack.


Maugham has a disconcerting way of excusing his characters from genuine emotion, and he makes his mini-revolution strangely bloodless. Extraordinary callousness goes from being quite funny in the first hour (“But have you no affection for us, Daddy?” “No, I haven’t.”) to exhausting in the second. Maugham frontloads the crucial decision into his first few acts, then uses the rest of his stage time to explain that choice over and over.


And he spends many, many scenes stacking the deck so that Charles won’t appear to be an irresponsible cad. His children, we are reminded incessantly, have reached their majority and should be fending for themselves, and a handy nest egg keeps his wife from the poorhouse door.


Maugham recently had a high-profile run on Broadway with “The Constant Wife,” and this production (with its comparatively microscopic budget) equals the bigger show’s successes. Nathan Heverin’s set doesn’t need millions to strike the right notes of luxury, and dialect coach Stephen Gabis gooses entirely respectable accents out of the cast.


Yet the real wealth of the company is its actors. A master at indignation, Ms. Roper has a great outraged squawk, while Ms. Van Dyck strikes exaggerated poses like she is seducing by semaphore. The men are nearly their equal: Mr. Gilpin’s Charles beautifully underplays his snarky humor, while son Patrick (Joe Delafield) overplays to equally comic effect.


Maugham always seems on the cusp of a play brave enough to show the rubble after the explosion or heroes who dither before breaking their families in two. But his plays cry out for second halves that actually get their hands dirty. When Nora flounced out of her “Doll’s House” door, at least she had the decency to weep about it. If Maugham found all the stuffed-shirt, enforced decency, stiff upper-lip hypocrisy so hateful, then why do the plays themselves feel so buttoned-up?


Until October 2 (220 E. 4th Street, between Avenues A and B, 212-868-4444).


The New York Sun

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