Theater Review by Samuel L. Leiter . . .
The oversized names and faces of Mia Farrow and Patti LuPone command a large space over the Booth Theatre for Jen Silverman’s comedy, The Roommate, whose title sits modestly below. Inside, however, the play itself fights back for recognition on Bob Crowley’s curtainless set, over which—unusually—looms its title in big block letters. But then, even more distinctively, Farrow and LuPone wrest back control when, as themselves, they walk on stage together, smilingly acknowledge the audience’s adulation, and exit upstage before the play even begins.
Perhaps this is meant to reduce the play-stopping applause each would get on her individual entrance, or maybe it’s to eliminate any hint of rivalry in the strength of each actor’s response. (One can’t help but wonder if the same entrance will be used should understudy Carol Halstead ever be called on to fill in.) Any way you cut it, though, The Roommate is a mildly diverting two-hander made palatable chiefly by the presence of its stellar cast.
And presence they certainly provide, with Farrow playing Sharon, a lonely, aging divorcée, living alone in a big farmhouse near Iowa City. LuPone is Robyn (if that’s her real name), a similarly senior loner from the Bronx who, burdened with boxes, takes up residence at Sharon’s place after seeing the latter’s ad for a roommate. The contrast between the two couldn’t be sharper.
As portrayed by Farrow, Sharon is a seemingly meek innocent whose chief cultural pursuit in a place of few other choices is a book club—or, rather, “reading group,” as its leader calls it. Farrow, 79, brilliantly employs her familiar traits of girlish simplicity and innocence, her sweetly musical voice capturing Sharon’s social ignorance along with questioning notes of neediness and longing. LuPone’s Robyn, the edgy one, is a pot-smoking lesbian vegan with a cynical New York aura, her short, brunette coiffure and dark, stylish, urban attire (including a black leather jacket) at odds with Sharon’s pigtailed blonde naif, garbed in the comfort grunge of jeans and plaid flannels (costumes by Crowley). Neither Farrow nor LuPone brings big surprises to their characters, who seem almost to have been written for them, but their pitch-perfect timing, subtextual nuances, and emotional intelligence are worth the price of admission.
For all the obvious differences of this traditional odd couple, their secrets (Robyn’s especially) will be uncovered as, mutually influenced, they evolve and bond. Each has a child with whom they try to keep in contact by phone. Sharon’s is a women’s fashion-designer son (“He’s not a homosexual,” she questionably insists) who rarely answers her too-frequent calls. Robyn has an estranged daughter, who mirrors her mother’s shadiness.
Sharon’s quirkiness—she says she “retired” from marriage—and quizzical eagerness to learn from Robyn is opposed by Robyn’s mystery and touch of danger. Robyn claims to have been a slam poet and potter, but the veracity of everything she says will ultimately be tested. Drugs, crime, sex, an assault rifle, and issues of identity will play their part. Drama intrudes here and there, but only to heighten the laughter, which erupted far more frequently from the audience than me.
Inexplicably, although Robyn uses an iPhone to play music, her too frequent phone calls require an old-fashioned, landline wall phone with an endless cord. The plot obviously requires confusion to arise from both women’s access to the same phone; unhappily, there’s no exposition to explain the absence (except for that musical iPhone) of cell phones. This, though, is only one of the various implausible plot devices that crop up. Another involves a situation regarding phone-scamming calls that, as executed here, may have had some validity a dozen years ago but is notably out of date in the age of incessant robocalls. I might also mention the scene where Sharon learns to smoke marijuana (“medicinal herbs,” that is), which is like dozens of such pseudo-funny scenes we’ve seen on stage and screen since the 60s. When poignancy is attempted, Silverman’s melancholy ending, with its bewildering Tevye moment as Sharon seeks to define herself (Sharon? Wife? Mother? Roommate?), falls short.
All the production elements work nicely, Jack O’Brien bringing his directorial mastery to the pacing and relationships. Crowley’s skeletal farmhouse set against an Iowan summer sky, gorgeously painted by lighting genius Natasha Katz creates rural eye candy, while David Yazbek’s diverse musical insertions pin the right mood on every new scene.
Although Farrow hasn’t been on Broadway in a regular run since 1979, she was one in a series of actresses offering limited appearances in A.R. Gurney’s Love Letters in 2014. LuPone, on the other hand, is a Broadway icon, although she recently quit Equity, the actors’ union, and is allowed to perform in The Roommate only through a loophole. The play itself debuted at Louisville’s Humana Festival in 2015 and was produced in 2017 at the Williamstown Theatre Festival.
It’s great to have these acting treasures together on Broadway, even in a so-so, old-fashioned comedy, but it would have been much greater had it been in something of real substance.
The Roommate. Open run at the Booth Theatre (222 West 45th Street, between Eighth and Ninth Avenues). 100 minutes, no intermission. www.theroommatebway.com
Photos: Matthew Murphy