In a perfect world, a playwright's work evolves over time. From one play to the next, insights sharpen, characters deepen, vision broadens, and details grow more specific. An imperfect world, however, has given us Gardner who, in lieu of developing his dramatic voice, repeats himself with each successive offering. In -- Thousand Clowns, his highly acclaimed first comedy, written when he was 27 years old, Gardner introduced Murray, the curmudgeonly but lovable eccentric who, in the character's words, doesn't take crap from anyone. Brought to life on-stage by Jason Robards and later immortalized by the same actor in the well-received 1965 film version, Murray remains Gardner's most compelling character, and Clowns his best play. Without bothering to modify the formula of his first success, Gardner replicated Murray, albeit in new situations and with different names, in several comedy-dramas written over the next three decades, including The Goodbye People (1968) and I'm Not Rappaport (1984). In his most recent effort, Conversations with My Father, he gave us Eddie Goldberg, an iconoclastic bar owner who, according to the script, doesn't take shit from anyone. Okay, okay, maybe substituting shit for crap signals an evolution of sorts.
A Thousand Clowns is perhaps the best of Gardner's lot, but its life-is-a-carnival sensibility feels hopelessly dated in the revival at Actors' Playhouse. Having bowed out of his gig as head writer for the insipid children's television show Chuckles the Chipmunk, Murray Burns (David Arisco, also artistic director of Actors' Playhouse) supports himself and his nephew Nick (Sean Russell A Arisco's real-life stepson) on unemployment checks. Ostensibly looking for work, Murray spends his days roaming Manhattan or going to the movies, no longer participating in the rat race. Alas, trouble arises when social service workers question whether an unemployed bachelor should be rearing a young boy.
When the play was written in 1962, a middle-class child being raised by a single adult was relatively rare; today it's an accepted practice, even for men. In the play's milieu the supporting characters consider Murray radical when he jumps on the Holden Caulfield bandwagon and brands everyone he knows a phony. And because he lives by his wits and imagination, Murray is termed "maladjusted." Such responses seem quaint by current standards. Three decades after Clowns debuted, eccentricity has gone mainstream: in music, in fashion, even in the business world, which values the creative entrepreneur over the Fifties-style organization man.
The most blatantly retro element of the play, however, is the character of Sandra Markowitz (Andrea O'Connell). Having dared to get her Ph.D. in psychology (now that was a truly nonconformist option for a woman at the time), Sandra must put up with her social services boss/boyfriend Albert (Wayne LeGette) persistently referring to her as "Miss" rather than "Doctor." When she finally challenges him, he fires her. Instead of fighting for her job, however, she snuggles into Murray's nest, donning an apron, baking cookies, cleaning up the bachelor-pad mess, and redecorating with curtains and flowers. Exposure to Murray's offbeat personality and the chance to take care of him apparently inspire her more than her career did. For his part, Murray now has to fight domestication on the home front as well as mediocrity in the world at large.
Arland Russell's amiable direction preserves the comedy's original tone of sweetness spiked with some occasionally tart one-liners. As Murray, Arisco gets off to an uncertain start -- possibly because he's forced to mince around the stage in his boxer shorts during the opening scene A but eventually his character sports a credible air of jaded bemusement while making witty pronouncements. Sean Russell gives a precocious performance as twelve-year-old Nick; O'Connell brings a ditzy comic energy to the woefully limited role of Sandra. And George Contini, as the pretentious and insecure Leo Herman (the man inside the Chuckles the Chipmunk costume on TV), delivers the best line of the evening -- over a speaker phone, no less -- when he admits to Murray that he's "one of the biggest no-talents of all time." In the end, however, Russell and his willing cast cannot dredge -- Thousand Clowns out of the period in which it is mired.