Theatre in Review: The Imaginary Invalid (Red Bull Theater/New World Stages)

	Mark-Linn Baker, Russell Daniels. Photo Carol Rosegg

If everyone involved in this revival (if that's the word I want) of The Imaginary Invalid weren't so deeply convinced that they're in a hilarious comedy, it might be a lot funnier. As it is, Jesse Berger's cast is dedicated to announcing, with flourishes, that theirs is a grandly humorous production and you should be laughing helplessly. At the performance I attended, the audience was disinclined to agree. The first rule of farce: You can't force the fizz.

To be sure, this is only The Imaginary Invalid by association: It's the latest offering from Jeffrey Hatcher, who doesn't adapt classic texts so much as he genially roughs them up, converting what might now seem like rather staid comedies into flat-out burlesques. Such predecessors in this line as The Government Inspector and The Alchemist, both directed by Berger, were explosively funny, each possessed of a keen eye for characters driven by greed, lust, and the thirst for power. Outrageously cartooned, they nevertheless maintained a vital contact with the real world.

The Imaginary Invalid proves to be a much trickier proposition, even in its opening sequence, with incidental music by Greg Pliskathat practically screams, "This is a romp." Maybe the problem is the play itself, which is rarely performed in these parts. You could argue that it is cursed, having been written by an ailing Moliere, who died hours after performing in it. Broadway has only seen it twice, most recently in 1967. Off-Broadway productions are equally rare, although the troupe Moliere in the Park staged it only last month. In recent years, Tartuffe has been the Moliere play of choice, its spoof of corrupt religiosity being almost too on the nose in contemporary American culture. In a society riddled with mistrust of science and medicine, is the time ripe for The Imaginary Invalid?

Maybe, but Hatcher's version offers little more than a steady stream of scattershot gags that never build into a satisfying satiric comment. The stage is populated with people who know what to do, nearly all of them seen at a disadvantage. Mark-Linn Baker has his moments as the title character, especially when indignantly reviewing his mountainous stack of medical bills, many for procedures that explore "the bowels of Monsieur Argan." ("Like it's a vacation destination," he snaps.) Sarah Stiles, the only one onstage inclined to underplay, earns some sneaky, low-balled laughs as Toinette, one of those sassy Moliere maids who pulls the strings of the plot. Argan reminisces about his late first wife, "It had been her ardent wish to take the vow of chastity herself, but then I came along and, well..." "Another loss for Rome," murmurs Toinette, impudently. Arnie Burton, who is essential to Red Bull productions, aims to pull off a tour de force as three equally fraudulent medical men, and he has occasional successes: Strenuously massaging Argan's buttocks, he looks at us and deadpans, "I love my life."

Then again, there are too many scenes of backside massage, unamusingly staged to resemble man-on-man sexual encounters. Enema jokes abound, with Burton, playing a specialist in the procedure, appearing in the Louis Quatorze version of a hazmat suit, toting a giant device that fills the stage with fog effects. Thanks to subplots that trail off rather than climaxing, everyone else barges through the sturdy doors of Beowulf Boritt's set to little purpose: Emilie Kouatchou and John Yi as the inevitable frustrated lovers ("He's got hypochondria?" shouts a terrified Yi, worried about catching it from Argan); Emily Swallow and Manoel Feliciano as Argan's second wife and her lover, deploying all sorts of shady legal maneuvers; and Russell Daniels as the arrested-development case Argan wants to marry off to his daughter. ("A late bloomer?" inquires Argan. "That was our hope," replies Burton, as Daniels' dismayed father.)

Boritt's wittily painted set, which is dotted with images of Moliere, cherubs, and various ghastly surgical procedures, is given additional color accents by Mextly Couzin's lighting. Tilly Grimes' costumes are elaborate, amusing, and built for fast changes, although I'm not so sure about her occasional attempts at inserting modern fabrics, like denim and leather, into certain ensembles. (The hair and wig designs by Sun Ju Kim make a fine complement to Grimes' styles.) The sound design by Nina Field and Pliska extends to a musical sequence that repurposes "La Vie en Rose," "I Dreamed a Dream," and "The Marseillaise" in a medley about sheep. (Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Think of Me" turns up in a similar context.) The production closes with a rewritten version of "Hooray for Captain Spaulding." It is the second reference to the Marx Brothers, the first being when Stiles' Toinette dons a set of Groucho glasses to convince Argan that she is a certain Dr. Bidet.

Under these circumstances, such comparisons are not wise. In contrast to earlier Hatcher-Berger collaborations, The Imaginary Invalid is about little more than its motley collection of gags, most of which, like Argan, don't benefit from the massaging they get here. Watching it unfold on stage the other night, all I could think was: Is there a doctor in the house? --David Barbour