Theatre in Review: The Balusters (Manhattan Theatre Club/Samuel J. Friedman Theatre)The Balusters is dedicated to the proposition that to sit on any committee is to be consigned to a special circle of hell, one that Dante would have found unjust and cruel and that would have left Sartre begging for mercy. Fortunately, David Lindsay-Abaire performs an alchemical feat, transmuting the petty skirmishing, not-so-subtle digs, and brazen power plays into pure hilarity. In passing, he also makes a telling comment about our fractured society and its fraught identity politics. It's a boulevard comedy posing as a state-of-the-nation play, or maybe it's the other way around. In any case, it's enormous fun. The characters are members of the Vernon Point Neighborhood Association, dedicated to policing and preserving their historic enclave, which comprises some of their city's most desirable real estate. Lindsay-Abaire wastes no time in teeing up the conflict between Kyra, a new arrival, and Elliot, a lifelong member of the community and the association's apparent president for life. Kyra, retired from corporate finance and planning on opening a bookstore, is sweet and gracious, doing her best to avoid a verbal knife fight. Elliot, a cheerful bully, uses his mastery of parliamentary procedure to block any initiative he doesn't like, which is to say all of them. (The title refers to his indignation that a neighbor has defaced his renovated porch with historically incorrect balusters.) But Elliot should take care: Sitting on a similar committee in her former home of Baltimore, Kyra's feud with a fellow member had dire results. "You gave her a stroke?" someone asks. "To be fair," Kyra replies, "she gave herself a stroke. But I didn't help matters." The battle is joined when Kyra suggests installing a couple of stop signs on the corner outside her house, the site of several audio accidents. Elliot, horrified at the proposal, notes that one can look down the street and "see all the way to the other end, and it's just a clean line of stately homes and trees and nothing else. It's like standing in an old postcard. So, you can understand that sticking up stop signs or, God forbid, traffic lights -- how that might diminish the character of the block." Actually, Kyra doesn't see Elliot's point. By the way, Kyra (Anika Noni Rose, cool, composed, and nobody's fool) is Black, and Elliot (Richard Thomas, smiling beatifically and wielding his gavel like a weapon) is white, and, as their conflict spins out of control, it resembles a proxy war for America today, caught between nostalgia for a past that never was and a contentious, sharp-elbowed present. In an attempt at detente, Elliot presents Kyra with a box of photographs from his youth: Gazing at scenes of neighborhood amity and beautifully tended homes, he all but tears up. But, as Kyra tartly notes, not one face resembles hers. Elliot, on the defensive, replies, "Here's Mr. Tesoriero." "Italians aren't white?" Kyra objects. "Well, they are now, but..." Elliot says, trailing off in defeat. Their fellow committee members are a snapshot of an increasingly diverse upper middle class, everyone struggling to get along. Isaac (Ricardo Chavira, genial but bluntly intolerant of BS), dismisses the term "Latinx," adding, "You know who I've never heard use that word? Latin people." Brooks (Carl Clemons-Hopkins, the epitome of cool), a Black, gay travel writer, has a tense relationship with a local Muslim merchant, unaware that his attitude imperils his marriage. Melissa (Jenna Yi, wisecracking with elan), who is Asian and lesbian, is tired of being confused with the neighborhood's other Melissa, who is Pakistani and straight. Avidly keeping score is Willow (Kayli Carter, an icon of secular piety), an expert in reminding others to check their privilege; wait for the moment when she discovers the others are placing bets on the precise timing of her "white girl tears." Forever feeling left out is Alan (Michael Esper, an irrepressible doofus), whose aggrieved defense of straight white men falls on deaf ears. Feeling like nothing he does is ever enough, he offers this outburst: "My wife is Jewish! My son was adopted from Ethiopia! And my daughter from Colombia! My brother is gay, and his partner is Bhutanese. You should come to my house at Thanksgiving, it's like the goddamn League of Nations over there!" Such performative beneficence wins him few fans. Representing the derriere-garde is Ruth (Margaret Colin delivering her opinions with the subtlety of a blowtorch), who, hearing that acquaintances have named their newborn "Rocket," grumbles. "We're resorting to naming children after random objects now? They might as well call him Doorknob. Or Taco." A Jew, she slyly admits to hiring German maids, for the satisfaction of it. As Penny, the committee's secretary, Marylouise Burke delivers another of her good-natured, yet utterly clueless, old ladies. Gently probing Isaac, she learns that both "Latino" and "Hispanic" are acceptable terms. What about Spanish? "I'm not from Spain, so no, not Spanish," he replies. "Interesting," she says, turning over this new and challenging idea in her mind. She also jousts amusingly with Ruth for possession of the most comfortable chair in the room, and, when revolution is in the air, makes a sensational entrance, casting the swing vote that will threaten Elliot's unchecked hold on power. Lindsay-Abaire treats his cadre of volunteer bureaucrats sharply yet with a certain affection; despite their crochets and blind spots, they sincerely want to get along. Indeed, the real issue may be one of class: All of them are well-off, in contrast to Luz (played with Teflon-smooth diplomacy by Maria-Christina Oliveras), once Elliot's housekeeper, now working for Kyra. As it happens, she harbors an explosive secret about her former employer, yet she doesn't enjoy being made a pawn by the others. This cues the play's ultimate revelation, a reminder that privilege most often comes accompanied by dollar signs. Kenny Leon's direction keeps things percolating at just the right pace, preventing the action from turning sour. His design team strikes exactly the right tone, beginning with Derek McLane's set, depicting Kyra's living room, a perfectly proportional turn-of-the-century interior fancied up with chic modern furnishings and contemporary Black art. (The painting on the upstage wall looks suspiciously like a piece by Kehinde Wiley.) Emilio Sosa dresses each character in a highly knowing way, right down to Melissa's pantsuit, described as "giving Kelly McGillis vibes." Lighting designer Allen Lee Hughes provides numerous time-of-day looks and collaborates niftily with sound design Dan Moses Schreier on a thunderstorm, the effects of which support some of the play's best laugh lines. (One complaint: The preshow playlist, featuring songs by Dirty Heads, Alvin Darling & Celebration, and Young Mike, is much too loud.) Lindsay-Abaire is a satirist, not a sociologist, and The Balusters offers no prescriptions. But, more than once, the word "grace" is invoked, along with the suggestion that it's time for everyone to start cutting some slack. (To be fair, personal troubles abound, including Brooks' marital issues, the many divorces of Ruth's daughters, and Elliot's cancer, which may be defying remission.) There's something faintly heartbreaking when Elliot pleads, "There are so many good things, right in front of us. And we should hold onto them. As tight as we can for as long as we can. Because it's all going so quickly." But, as Kyra notes, the clock can't be rewound. And a final round of aired grievances suggests that everyone could do with a good look in the mirror. The Balusters ends in adjournment, but the meetings will go on, hopefully with its participants feeling chastened. Maybe they can learn to laugh at themselves a little; certainly, the audience has. --David Barbour 
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