But if comedy were an arrow, it would naturally be a crooked one. Not all things are funny to all people; the arrow can just as easily miss the mark as hit it. With this proviso in mind, unless the notion of a giant man accidentally defecating on miniature people strikes you as funny, Josh Zellers adaptation of Jonathan Swifts book has a tendency of flinging arrows that never make it into the air. Crude (is there any other kind?) scatological humor the kind that doesnt even rouse the bourgeoisie from their naps, let alone offend them is the boorish and boring drag in a story that has so many raw elements to wring guffaws from audiences that it doesnt need to pander to immature senses of humor. Zeller ostensibly aimed for Monty Python. In some cases, like poor Gullivers humiliation in the land of Brobdingnag, he comes close. At other times, its like watching a Knight Who Says Ni who painfully takes the stage and farts instead of demanding a shrubbery.
In all fairness to Zeller, some of the vulgarity does come from Swift himself. Yet its somehow less irritating to read about, say, a quasi-scientific Projector trying to extract foodstuff from excrement than it is to see it actually get any attention on stage. Surely there are more worthwhile barbs to level toward society and human nature. You know, those cynical barbs that point out just how icky humanity is.
Saint Monty Python
Monty Python, with its absurdist and unrepentantly silly humor, still remains an appropriate comedy saint to invoke, however much with debatable success. The war-inducing doctrinal differences between Lilliput and Blefuscu over which side of an egg to break lend themselves perfectly to the pure lunacy that defined the venerable British sketch comedy troupe. So do any number of scenarios that satirize everything from politics to the disconnect between ivory tower science and practical concerns. With manic energy, sheer gusto and something resembling Dada-istic chaos, the truly mighty cast delivers performances that liven things up just as they create a wish for funnier, more truly Monty Python stuff. Its trouble for sure when not even a joke at President Bushs expense hits the comic bulls-eye.
More fundamental is the problem of Gulliver himself. He isnt the plays straight man at least, not until the second half. Hes not quite the measuring rod we need to use as a baseline. From a thematic standpoint, this makes Gullivers Travels like a Pirates of the Caribbean in which every single character is Captain Jack Sparrow and theres no straight-laced Will Turner to provide a necessary contrast. Consider: during his adventures in Lilliput, Gulliver is made to be rather buffoonish, going so far as to indulge a bit of teabagging with Lilliputian ladies. (What is this, a John Waters production?) By the end of the play, when Gulliver has met the Houyhnhnhms and finds his faith in humanity (yahoos) severely challenged, not even Keythe Farleys considerable capacity for nuance can sustain the illusion that Gulliver is plausibly changed by his increasingly bleak experiences.
While on the topic of nuance, it could be that the extreme compression of a play limits the satire to mere broadsides instead of surgical strikes. Surely, there are interesting questions that could be examined, such as: How enlightened can the Houyhnhnhms be if theyre happy with subjugating a race in benevolent slavery? Yet given distracting juvenile shenanigans and the limited amount of time available to hunt four voyages worth of sacred cows, it shouldnt come as a surprise that we get rapid-fire, pinprick satire instead of sustained gory impalements. Even with that understanding, though, the end result is substance that is insufficiently worthy of the formidable style.
The Actors Gang presents Gullivers Travels, adapted by Josh Zeller from the book by Jonathan Swift. Starring Keythe Farley, Chris Bell, Corey G. Lovett, Vanessa Mizzone, Molly ONeil, Steven M. Porter, and Malcolm Foster Smith. On stage at the Ivy Substation until Sept. 8th. www.theactorsgang.com.
