Theatre in Review: The Maids (Red Bull Theatre at Theatre at St. Clement's)

To drag or not to drag? That is the question. Jean Genet intended that the three females who make up the cast of The Maids be played by men. Louis Jouvet, his director, balked, and the 1947 premiere featured a trio of actresses. A classic was born, but not in the way its author intended. Since then, it seems that anything goes: I've seen The Maids done as a straightforward psychological thriller and as an outrageously camp investigation of role-playing and power games. (There's even a starry film version with Glenda Jackson, Susannah York, and Vivien Merchant.) Partisans of Genet's original conception tend to scorn those who favor a more naturalistic approach, and vice versa. Such controversies may actually benefit Genet, as they draw attention away from the fact that, despite its obvious theatrical qualities and strong dramatic setup, The Maids rarely provides a fully satisfying experience.

At first glance, it would appear that Jesse Berger, director of the Red Bull revival, has gone the conventional route, having lined up a trio of well-known, well-regarded actresses for his new production. Enter Theatre at St. Clement's, however, and you may get a shock. Dane Laffrey, the inventive set designer, has vastly reduced the stage's playing space, erecting a four-walled structure with audience seating on each side. Facing us, the walls look like the solidly constructed flats they are; however, each contains a horizontal opening through which one can see a lavishly appointed Frenchwoman's boudoir of the early 1930s. The walls are covered with crushed red velvet. The roomy bed is covered with a satiny pink spread. The furniture is Louis XIV; the atmosphere is softened by lighting from vertical art deco accent fixtures placed in each corner. Flowers are everywhere, in vases scattered around the room.

It's a plush setting for the title characters of The Maids, a pair of incestuous sisters, to exorcize their frustrations by reenacting the abuse visited on them by their capricious, volatile mistress. When the lights come up, Claire, the dominant sibling, is playing the role of Madame, bossing her sister, Solange, about and cruelly reprimanding her for every tiny error. As per the rules of the game, their exchanges bristle with mutual hostility. When Claire upbraids Solange for using spittle to shine her employer's shoes, Solange's reply -- "My spurt of saliva is my spray of diamonds" -- is both servile and more than a little insolent. Claire, for her part, also enjoys sending up Madame, their oppressor, striking a pose and announcing, in her best tragedy queen manner, "Oh! I am alone and friendless."

At moments like these, Berger's production crackles with malicious wit. Jeanine Seralles, who knows how to invest a line with multiple layers of irony, captures every one of Claire's quicksilver mood changes, showering Solange with insults, then grasping her for dear life and holding her in a deeply erotic kiss. Ana Reeder plays along deftly, making her Solange a drab and clumsy creature who simmers with a slow-burning rage; each of her line readings is suffused with an unsettling resentment. The brio with which they enact their early scenes goes a long way toward explaining the warped emotional satisfaction they derive from recreating their trapped existence. Combined with the suffocatingly decorated set, their calculatingly overripe performances suggest a Douglas Sirk '50s film melodrama or one of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's campy deconstructions of the Hollywood zeitgeist.

The sisters may hate Madame, who dictates every detail of their lives, but they're also weirdly protective of her, having, via some anonymous letters, gotten her lover in trouble with the police. Trouble sets in when he is released on bail, and, realizing that their treachery is in danger of imminent exposure, they put into play their long-discussed plan to murder her. When she arrives, a teacup filled with Phenobarbital is introduced into the action, but Madame is so desperate to make a rendezvous with her freed lover that getting her to take a sip becomes a major problem. This sequence is given an electric jolt by the appearance of J. Smith-Cameron, dressed in an eye-searing gold lamé sheath and Jean Harlow-ish platinum blonde wig, and clocking in with a different emotion every five seconds. One part screwball comedy society dame and one part haut bourgeois monster, she poses, preens, laments, languishes, and explodes in childish fits of temper; one minute, she renounces the world and gives two of her most expensive outfits to the maids; five minutes later, she takes them back, as if nothing ever happened. So oblivious is she to her servants' suffering (and their evil intentions) that she tells them, "You're lucky! What misery your humble lives spare you."

Once this whirlwind blows itself offstage, The Maids takes something of a dive as it moves relentlessly toward the only possible ending for Claire and Solange. This is not the fault of Berger or his cast, I think: Every production I've ever seen -- no matter the approach -- faltered at this point, for reasons I've never fully understood. Is it because the resolution seems so obvious for so long? Because all three characters are so repellent? Or because they're less flesh-and-blood characters than vehicles for Genet's own brand of existentialism?

In any case, if you're curious to see The Maids, this is a solid, stylish production, as good as many, and better than most. Other plus factors include Sara Jean Tosetti's costumes, which include a knockout of a mother-of-pearl evening gown for Madame (but worn by Claire); Peter West's lighting, which helps mightily to create a mood of impending doom; and Brandon Wolcott's sound design, which makes good use of period dance-band music. And if Berger seems to have chosen the more conventional route, going with an all-female cast, its design provides much of the bold theatricality Genet wanted, and it benefits from a trio of actresses who are highly skilled at keeping you guessing what's going on inside them. Even better, they keep you wondering if there's anything inside them at all.--David Barbour