The A Doctor in Spite of Himself Review

Steven Epp, Allen Gilmore and Justine Williams in the Yale Repertory Theatre production of Moliere's A Doctor in Spite of Himself, which ends Dec 17. Photo by Carol Rosegg.

A Doctor in Spite of Himself

By Moliere. Adapted by Christopher Bayes and Steven Epp. Directed by Bayes. Through Dec. 17 at the Yale Repertory Theatre, New Haven. Music direction and original compositions by Aaron Halva. Scenic design: Matt Saunders. Costumes: Kristin Fiebig. Lighting by Yi Zhao. Sound design by Ken Goodwin. Dramaturg: Benjamin Fainstein. Vocal coach: Walton Wilson. Performed by Julie Briskman (Jacqueline), Liam Craig (Lucas/Thibault), Steven Epp (Sganarelle), Renata Friedman (Lucinde/Puppeteer), Allen Gilmore (M. Robert, Geronte), Chivas Michael (Leandre, Old Man), Jacob Ming Trent (Valere, Cherub) and Justine Williams (Martine, Perrin). Live music performed by Brandon Curtis. Greg Powers and Robertson Witmer.

When Christopher Bayes and Steven Epp last assaulted the Yale Rep with a semi-masked, double-quick joke-at-any-cost comedy, Goldoni’s A Servant of Two Masters just a year and a half ago, I noted that their approach, while garnering great reviews, was potentially fraught, without-a-net affair.

This was just a twinge, a critical muscle that didn’t need to be exercised. A Servant of Two Masters flew along brashly and blithely and boisterously that its lack of a center—something stable to push against—never became a serious problem. Everybody was funny, and that was that.

With A Doctor in Spite of Himself, that twinge twinges again, and this time it must be scratched.

Simply put (and Bayes/Epp shows are nothing if not simply put), there’s no straight man.

While ferociously, feverishly funny from start to finish based on the sheer mass of gags being hurled, the show lacks any Zeppo Marx or Margaret Dumont, no Allan Jones or Kitty Carlisle, no anybody who might take  themselves seriously even for an instant. There is a gruff father figure, but he has no qualms about switching from that dour countenance into a mad comic dance or a vocal burst of street jive. There is a lovestruck couple, but her lethargy is elaborated into a full Goth-girl attitude (replete with costume and makeup), while he is doing an over-earnest poetic lout straight out of Black Adder.

A Doctor in Spite of Himself wants to be A Servant of Two Masters 2, and in fact shows advanced signs of sequelitis, trying to up the ante on a familiar style by being even faster, louder and grander. To this end, Epp and Bayes have eschewed the services of translator Connie Congdon, who provided the base script for Servant, and done the Doctor adaptation themselves. Without a firmer template, and without anyone to argue in favor of structure, they build joke upon joke upon joke upon joke until the plot becomes meaningless. It’s not the most meaningful plot to begin with, granted—man is mistaken for doctor and furthers the deception so he can bring young lovers together—but at least it’s something to propel the action. In Epp and Bayes’ hand, the action is propelled entirely by physical comedy shtick. Nothing is sacred, especially the lines the characters are speaking. The production becomes a parody of A Doctor in Spite of Himself rather than a performance of it.

I wasn’t exactly expecting high respect here, but I honestly think that conflict is the key to comedy, and this play doesn’t have any conflict. Any character, at any time, can change their attitude at the drop of a plumed dance and do a silly dance. The musical soundtrack, by a shabbily dressed trio who resemble the British Brechtian cabaret masters The Tiger Lilies in both musicality and swagger, is similarly askew and open to constant interruptions and deprecations. Hard to find the melody in either case.

Such unstoppable, unfettered frivolity can begin to grate, however entrancing the actual mechanics of the show. There are beautifully timed routines with hand puppets, fearless grabbings and pinchings and slappings and lustful advances, exquisite shuffles and slow burns—especially from Liam Craig, who as Lucas is the Tweedledum to the Tweedledee of Jacob Ming Trent’s Valere.

I’m not a fan of the best-known Moliere translator, Richard Wilbur, whom I think misses a lot of obvious stage jokes because he’s too flowery and poetic in his verbiage. But Epp & Bayes are venturing off too far in the other extreme. You lose the sense of this as an anti-authoritarian play, with the underclass outsmarting the lords of the manor. Everybody’s equally insensible.

When, at the play’s end, a moment of calm and beauty is required to remind you that these characters had some quest in mind, Moliere’s own maguffins have long been left mangled by the roadside. What the cast and crew conjure up is a starry delight, a beautiful harmonious tableau that really isn’t supported by the script but which is pretty much the only way you can end such a exhausting bout of manic hooting.

The jokes, by the way, allow for modern-day references as well as the ancient archetypes (nagging wife, listless daughter, idiot savant hero) which fuel Moliere’s ensemble-friendly scenarios. Some of these are as current as a Lady Gaga tune, or Steven Epps (who plays the title role) asking “Is James Franco in there?” where peering down a woman’s prodigious bosom. Others aren’t that “current” at all: an Abba “Dancing Queen” quote, for instance. The volume of the jokes matters more than the quality here.

They say that in long journeys, the fun is all in how you get there. That’s the concept here. Colorful and clownish and captivating in its own way, it’s more of a modern dance gloss on Moliere than it is a sincere appreciation of his own fine multi-faceted comic values.

Enjoy the trip. It’s one long pratfall.

A rare shot of the cast of A Doctor in Spite of Himself when they are not a mad blur. Photo by Carol Rosegg.