By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
Standing in for Beckett's tramps we get Molly and Polly, middle-aged friends fighting over a fatty as they synchronize their rocking chairs. The joints they smoke are tightly rolled; the women are not.
Molly, portrayed with extra dollops of wide-eyed wack by Susan Sargeant, is the muumuu-wearing landlady at The Big Dormitory, a bargain-priced outpost for losers and has-beens on the made-up island of Cocaloony Key. Polly (Beverly Jacob Daniel), the "Southernmost gossip columnist and society editor of the southernmost news organ in the Disunited Mistakes," is interviewing Molly for a write-up about the boardinghouse and its residents.
Frozen continues through November 5, downstairs at Theatre Three, 214-871-3300.
One of Molly's down-and-out guests is the title character, a mysterious "soubrette" played by Lulu Ward. Every so often she interrupts Molly and Polly's front-porch palaver to warble a few bars of an aria chosen from a faded playbill. The women stop whatever they're doing to listen to her, just as they do to cower in terror when the ravenous cocaloony bird flaps by on its way to the docks for fish. Pelican-like, it has already attacked the Fräulein, plucking out one of her eyes. Before the play is over, it will get the other.
The bird, who only says "Awk! Awk!," is played by Jeff Swearingen, clad in a long orange beak, some rather ragged wings and a tiny snip of a swimsuit. Rounding out the unorthodox collection of creatures in this tropical fantasia is Indian Joe (Joel McDonald), dressed like a gay disco version of a cigar-store Cherokee. All he says is "Ugh."
The Gnädiges Fräulein (the title translates as "gracious young lady") is the work of a Tennessee Williams on the cusp of madness and having a good one over on his critics. He wrote it in 1966, paired with the one-act called The Mutilated as an evening of Slapstick Tragedy. He was stretching himself with these plays, which have been described as his attempts at the then-avant-garde trend toward the "theater of cruelty." Stretching in the wrong direction, said the critics.
Just reaching his mid-50s, Williams already was regarded as a playwright in decline. His last major stage success, The Night of the Iguana, was in 1961, and his greatest plays—Glass Menagerie, Streetcar, Summer and Smoke, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—were products of a remarkable streak that began in the mid-1940s and lasted well into the late 1950s.
The 1960s, however, brought Williams less acclaim and lots of despair. He suffered the loss of his longtime lover, Frank Merlo, who died of cancer in 1963. And he watched his beloved sister, Rose, lose her grasp on reality as the result of a prefrontal lobotomy (a topic he explored in gothic detail in Suddenly, Last Summer). Battling his own depression and alcoholism, Williams retreated to the Florida Keys, which must truly have provided some coca-loony diversions.
All of his favorite themes recur in Gnädiges Fräulein, as if he's cobbling together a comic medley of his hits. The Southern busybody, the rundown boardinghouse, the terrifying image of a giant bird ripping out the eyes of people—Williams wove those into many of his plays, from the earlier Menagerie to the later Vieux Carré. He also loved to rail against parasites, human or otherwise, and he has Molly do it at length: "Nothing is more intolerant, Polly, than one parasite of another."
In the 1955 reviews of Cat, critics marveled at Williams' reinvention of the dramatic form. But for his even wilder ripping up of theatrical conventions for Fräulein, they punished him for trying something new. The Broadway production of Slapstick Tragedy closed after seven performances.
Maybe it was one of those "too strange, too soon" things. Under the sure-handed direction of René Moreno, WingSpan's Fräulein makes plenty of sense, gets plenty of laughs and is full of nice surprises. The first is the visual wallop of scenic designer Randel Wright's set—a stark gray-white porch, some picket fencing and a curling swoop up the Bath House wall that suggests a tidal wave. In this most difficult of spaces to design for, Wright has come up with something that efficiently interprets the "wow" of the play. And just when parts of the set become familiar, they begin to change.
The best surprise of all is the performance by Susan Sargeant, one of the area's top directors and an infrequent actress last seen moping around as Linda Loman in Classical Acting Company's flawed Death of a Salesman. Here, it's like she's thrown off the pall of low-budget Arthur Miller and gone giddy with the provocative silliness of Williams' words. She is get-down funny as Molly, drenching her delivery in Southern "chahm" and tossing her head around under a blond wig the size of a hay bale.