MATCH
[] (One star)
The Plymouth Theatre, 236 W. 45th St. (212) 239-6200.
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WHEN the valiant Frank Langella, forced to overact a storm, can still leave a play lying flat and dull on the stage, that play is in trouble.
The stage was that of the Plymouth Theatre and the play was Stephen Belber’s “Match,” which was scarcely born in heaven and had the temerity to open last night.
The story is annoyingly simple. Tobi (Langella) is a 61-year-old choreographer residing in Upper Manhattan, whose reputation, unfortunately, resides chiefly in Europe. He now teaches classical ballet at Juilliard.
We first encounter him in his cluttered one-bedroom apartment, knitting. Obviously awaiting guests, he fiddles with wine and chips, then clips his fingernails with relish, popping the clippings into a large receptacle obviously maintained for that purpose.
At last the bell rings, not a moment too soon, announcing the arrival of Mike (Ray Liotta) and his wife Lisa (Jane Adams) from Seattle. Lisa is apparently researching a dissertation on American dance history.
Tobi, surprised and flattered to find himself included in such a project, flutters around like a hummingbird in heat. He is so busily limp-wristed one fears his hands might fly off at the next gestural extravagance.
It is soon clear that Lisa, and more especially Mike – who turns out to be a cop, but no master at interrogation – are particularly fascinated by the sexual antics of the dance community around 1959.
That was precisely the time when Tobi, after being the toast of New York City with George Balanchine, suddenly left to make his career with Alicia Alonso in Cuba. (A strange career move, perhaps, but it’s not my play.)
Now comes the big surprise: It seems that Tobi is or was a practicing bisexual, and Mike is soon homing in on whether he was practicing in his relationship with one particular dancer, a Gloria Rinaldi.
Did he or didn’t he? Were they or weren’t they? Is Mike’s last name really Davis? And will Tobi take a DNA test (and here you see the significance of the play’s title)?
It’s not for me to reveal the outcome of what is the entire, extraordinally slender subject matter of the play.
What I can tell you is that it is remarkably clumsily written, with dialogue as unrealistic as the characters are unbelievable.
Director Nicholas Martin is something of a specialist in extravagance, but the play exceeds even the bounds of his specialty, and while James Noone’s setting is authentically jumbled and shabby, the actors are at a loss for any such credibility.
Liotta, in his Broadway debut, is sullen, broody and charmless as the sullen, broody and charmless Mike, while Adams consistently shows a surprising grace in the difficult role of Lisa.
As for Langella . . . perhaps a little less might have paid off a little more, but faced with the always uphill task of briefly galvanizing the stubbornly inert, his relentless overactivity could almost be commended.
“Match” is a pretty bad play. Were it a game of tennis you might score it as: Six, Love; Six, Love; Six, Love; Game, Set and, yes, Match!