Theatre in Review: Madwomen of the West (Actors Temple Theatre)

	Caroline Aaron, Marilu Henner, Melanie Mayron, Brooke Adams. Photo: Carol Rosegg

The hell with a balanced budget: It's time for Congress to pass The Defense of Actresses of a Certain Age Act. This highly necessary law will highlight and punish the creators of shoddy vehicles for gifted female performers who, for decades, have given their all. Why, after decades of honorable service, should they be forced to sling substandard gags in poor comedies that pander to boomer prejudices? I ask you, is that fair?

In time, we may see Madwomen of the West as the catalyst for our nascent social justice movement; it's a positive crime how this not-ready-for-television mishmash leaves four lovely ladies thoroughly stranded onstage. Sandra Tsing-Loh's script is an extended dish session throwing together four old friends for a Brentwood birthday party, where they sip champagne and complain endlessly. The kvetchers are Marilyn, the wisecracking, embattled headmistress of a girls' school; Jules, the hostess, a retired lawyer whose marriage is going south (Cancun, to be exact, where her husband is shacked up with a florist); Claudia, a high-art photographer with cash-flow problems and rebellious nonbinary offspring; and Zoey, an "international wellness guru," whose book, Breath, sold twenty million copies.

Best friends in college -- they fondly recall hanging out at Trader Vic's during spring break -- they're a wildly mixed bunch now, carefully engineered to get on each other's nerves, and Tsing-Loh hints around that, before too long, the fur will fly. Don't you believe it: Instead, the conversation rambles wildly, allowing everyone to lament, at length, that they no longer occupy the center of the cultural universe. The script strains for relevance with lame jokes about sugar cleanses, trigger warnings, and crypto. But, mostly, it's the same old song: Men are dismissed as cheaters, gamblers, or targets for gunplay. Hillary Clinton, Gloria Steinem, and Eve Ensler are reverently invoked. Everyone worries about top surgery, pronouns, and cancelation. Really -- you'd never know the twenty-first century ever happened.

And the jokes -- oy: Claudia unhappily notes, "For a while, I put such a good face on birthdays. Every one had a theme. 'You're turning 31 -- 31 Flavors, Baskin Robbins!' '55 -- double nickels!' '57! Heinz 57!' But my age now. . .? I'm running out of condiments." Marilyn, worried about a "trans wave" among her students says, "It's spread through Instagram. It's the new bulimia." Claudia, looking back at her birth-control years, says, "That stupid diaphragm! In its little snap-case. Dusting it with cornstarch! Remember that? It was like some baking project from hell!" Marilyn, summing up their angst, says, "It's this age-old War Against Women! "I am woman, hear me apologize!"

Tsing-Loh tries to go all Pirandello on us, making the cast aware that they are onstage at the Actors Temple. Claudia (Melanie Mayron), entering, says, "Have I been to services here?" At the top of the show, Caroline Aaron, who plays Marilyn, tells a story about working with Shelley Winters on the Paul Mazursky film The Pickle, which, in real life, she did. References are made to Zoey's extraordinary memory, a nod to Marilu Henner, who has hyperthymesia, or highly superior autobiographical memory. (Henner is also a wellness expert, although not on the Zoey level). Brooke Adams, as Jules, notes that thanks to budget restrictions, she has brought her costume from home, and mentions are made of furnishings and props that the production couldn't afford.

All of which makes one feel bad for the talent. At least Aaron, speaking in her delightful, bonded bourbon purr, can get a laugh out of the weakest line. ("I loathe a 'gratitude exercise.' It's neither 'gratitude' nor 'exercise'." I know, I know -- but she gets away with it.) And Henner, running around in a skin-tight black catsuit with a chain belt, looks terrific and contributes some much-needed energy, even during a borderline embarrassing monologue about Zoey's self-pleasuring routine. But Adams seems baffled by her role, and I don't blame her. Mayron does her best Woody Allen imitation, delivering every line with a kind of vocal shrug.

If anything, Madwomen of the West is reminiscent of the later Allen film and stage comedies, set in the present but featuring characters who carry on like it's 1978. It's all harmless, I suppose, and, at the performance I attended, the audience yukked it up, even joining in on the singalong rendition of the Mary Tyler Moore theme. (Yes, it really happened.) But anyone looking for a smart contemporary comedy should, in the words of Dionne Warwick, walk on by.

The director Thomas Caruso lets the ladies have at it, although the production feels under-rehearsed. Christian Fleming's setting, placing three sofas against a black-and-white depiction of palm trees, looks like the set of a talk show, which is about right. Pamela Kupper's lighting is fairly basic and, barring the unflattering outfit on Jules -- Marilyn accurately notes that she looks like a Buddhist nun -- the costumes by Sharon Feldstein and Erin Hirsh are okay. Max Silverman's sound design takes in "The Waters of March," bits of An American in Paris, and "The Bitch is Back," the latter of which, we are told, is the ladies' anthem. It is heard in the finale when Marilyn, addressing the audience, says, "For those of you who feel what we said went over the line, well. . . Blame the playwright." You know, I might just do that. Meanwhile, write your Congressperson. --David Barbour