The scene: a dingy dorm room in 50 years. Droopy-eyed doctoral candidates are passionately debating whether the cover image on the playbill for November—the 2008 play by David Mamet, his first new work on Broadway in over a decade—communicates an unsubtle semiotic message. The black and white image, a shade darker than it ought to be, is of star Nathan Lane in a well-tailored suit, sitting on the edge of a desk, his face staring contemplatively, balefully, dolefully at a full-size turkey.
Well, I’ll let those future Ph.D.’s worry about that. This is, after all, a new Mamet play, only his third new work on Broadway in 20 years—the others being The Old Neighborhood (1997) and Speed-the-Plow (1988). This is an event.
First, I’ll report that Mamet’s gift for obscenity remains intact: I tallied at least 21 “fucks,” “fuckings” and “fuckers” in the play’s opening minutes, all artfully inserted like literary catheters. Mamet situates the play in an Oval Office stripped of pomp or pageantry (august set by Scott Pask), replacing it with a weight machine, golf clubs and retail couches and chairs. Lane plays Charles H.P. Smith, a first-term president so witless, insensitive and hated he makes Herbert Hoover seem like Emperor Hirohito on December 8, 1941. It’s nearly election eve, and Smith, his defeat inevitable, is worried for his presidential library—there’s just $4,000 to pay for it.
Satirically speaking, this is terrain similar to what Mamet traversed with his play Romance in 2005—a courtroom farce. But there’s a difference between a generic courtroom in which the American judiciary can be pricked like a piñata and the singular presidential sanctuary. When Smith’s wife calls to ask if they can remove the furniture from the White House, Smith—following a remark from his factotum, Archer Brown (Dylan Baker)—answers that Iran has launched a nuclear strike and hangs up. The writer who made his reputation painting hucksters and hustlers as inexorably human is fatally erring: November packs only the firepower to nick the skin, not to assassinate. Mamet has stated that the play isn’t about George W. Bush, but shouldn’t satire sear? Why does this one itch?
Smith, always on the take, elects to extort funds from a Representative of the National Association of Turkey By-Products Manufacturers (Ethan Phillips) in exchange for his annual pardoning of Thanksgiving turkeys. Meanwhile, for plot-driven reasons, liberal lesbian speechwriter Clarice Bernstein (Laurie Metcalf) is summoned to the Oval Office. Her arrival turns November, with its flaccid fusillade of jokes and Mamet cuss-speak, into something nearing a real play. If Smith can gobble up a few hundred million from the turkey basters, he’ll spare the birds. If not, he’ll deliver Bernstein’s speech asking Americans to eat another fowl for Thanksgiving—perhaps inspiring them to vote for him. Bernstein’s draft speech is, in fact, brilliant—but she won’t finish it unless Smith marries her and her partner on TV. A conservative with easily ruffled feathers, the turk of turkeys won’t pay if Smith agrees to Bernstein’s demand. What’s a lame duck to do?
As staged by Joe Mantello, November gives Lane the business, and I mean all of it: the Jackie Gleason cadences; the double-takes; the arched eyebrows. Unfortunately, Lane’s shtick becomes too mannered even for him. Yet as the laughter cascaded throughout the theater, it seems the actor is giving the audience what it paid for, which isn’t so terrible. My problem is that none of that relates to character, satire or Mamet, but to Nathan Lane saying “fuck.” That’s one reason why, in 50 years, those dopey doctoral candidates will be debating Playbill-cover semiotics, not remembering November.
In other respects, that’ll be a shame. Mostly wasted in her role, Metcalf has a peppy Act 2 scene in a wedding dress; you can forgive the forced gag during the play in which Bernstein, suffering from a cold, sneezes on everyone. Phillips, who once played a stuffed shirt on TV’s Benson, also acquits himself well. And Baker—well, I’d watch him read aloud impeachment findings against Smith, especially if Mamet were to write them. Baker’s character, though, would never betray the boss.
As a disgruntled Native American (remember, this is a play in which an American president rails about “Chinks”), Michael Nichols has a scene in which he attempts to kill Smith with a poisoned dart. Bernstein takes the hit and lives. Goddamn it.
Open run. Ethel Barrymore Theatre, 243 W. 47th St. (betw. Broadway & 8th Ave.), 212-239-6200; $46.50-$99.50.
Well, I’ll let those future Ph.D.’s worry about that. This is, after all, a new Mamet play, only his third new work on Broadway in 20 years—the others being The Old Neighborhood (1997) and Speed-the-Plow (1988). This is an event.
First, I’ll report that Mamet’s gift for obscenity remains intact: I tallied at least 21 “fucks,” “fuckings” and “fuckers” in the play’s opening minutes, all artfully inserted like literary catheters. Mamet situates the play in an Oval Office stripped of pomp or pageantry (august set by Scott Pask), replacing it with a weight machine, golf clubs and retail couches and chairs. Lane plays Charles H.P. Smith, a first-term president so witless, insensitive and hated he makes Herbert Hoover seem like Emperor Hirohito on December 8, 1941. It’s nearly election eve, and Smith, his defeat inevitable, is worried for his presidential library—there’s just $4,000 to pay for it.
Satirically speaking, this is terrain similar to what Mamet traversed with his play Romance in 2005—a courtroom farce. But there’s a difference between a generic courtroom in which the American judiciary can be pricked like a piñata and the singular presidential sanctuary. When Smith’s wife calls to ask if they can remove the furniture from the White House, Smith—following a remark from his factotum, Archer Brown (Dylan Baker)—answers that Iran has launched a nuclear strike and hangs up. The writer who made his reputation painting hucksters and hustlers as inexorably human is fatally erring: November packs only the firepower to nick the skin, not to assassinate. Mamet has stated that the play isn’t about George W. Bush, but shouldn’t satire sear? Why does this one itch?
Smith, always on the take, elects to extort funds from a Representative of the National Association of Turkey By-Products Manufacturers (Ethan Phillips) in exchange for his annual pardoning of Thanksgiving turkeys. Meanwhile, for plot-driven reasons, liberal lesbian speechwriter Clarice Bernstein (Laurie Metcalf) is summoned to the Oval Office. Her arrival turns November, with its flaccid fusillade of jokes and Mamet cuss-speak, into something nearing a real play. If Smith can gobble up a few hundred million from the turkey basters, he’ll spare the birds. If not, he’ll deliver Bernstein’s speech asking Americans to eat another fowl for Thanksgiving—perhaps inspiring them to vote for him. Bernstein’s draft speech is, in fact, brilliant—but she won’t finish it unless Smith marries her and her partner on TV. A conservative with easily ruffled feathers, the turk of turkeys won’t pay if Smith agrees to Bernstein’s demand. What’s a lame duck to do?
As staged by Joe Mantello, November gives Lane the business, and I mean all of it: the Jackie Gleason cadences; the double-takes; the arched eyebrows. Unfortunately, Lane’s shtick becomes too mannered even for him. Yet as the laughter cascaded throughout the theater, it seems the actor is giving the audience what it paid for, which isn’t so terrible. My problem is that none of that relates to character, satire or Mamet, but to Nathan Lane saying “fuck.” That’s one reason why, in 50 years, those dopey doctoral candidates will be debating Playbill-cover semiotics, not remembering November.
In other respects, that’ll be a shame. Mostly wasted in her role, Metcalf has a peppy Act 2 scene in a wedding dress; you can forgive the forced gag during the play in which Bernstein, suffering from a cold, sneezes on everyone. Phillips, who once played a stuffed shirt on TV’s Benson, also acquits himself well. And Baker—well, I’d watch him read aloud impeachment findings against Smith, especially if Mamet were to write them. Baker’s character, though, would never betray the boss.
As a disgruntled Native American (remember, this is a play in which an American president rails about “Chinks”), Michael Nichols has a scene in which he attempts to kill Smith with a poisoned dart. Bernstein takes the hit and lives. Goddamn it.
Open run. Ethel Barrymore Theatre, 243 W. 47th St. (betw. Broadway & 8th Ave.), 212-239-6200; $46.50-$99.50.
