Two over-the-top comedies now on Broadway illuminate the differing styles of their respective decades of origin. They also offer pointed observations on serious subjects such as the struggle for civilization amidst natural and man-made disaster and the absurdity of our political system in a sexist, social-media-driven world. The new POTUS is all about hilarity, while Thornton Wilder’s 1942 Pulitzer Prize-winning allegorical fantasy, The Skin of Our Teeth, receives a gigantic, somewhat overblown, but still effective production at Lincoln Center’s huge Vivian Beaumont stage.
When it premiered in 1942, Skin was a radical rule breaker. The whimsical extravaganza imagines mankind’s eternal battle for survival represented by a contemporary suburban family called the Antrobuses. Wilder combines eras and epochs with ease. Papa George Antrobus works hard at the office inventing the wheel and the alphabet. Mama Maggie raises the children and keeps the fire and the family going as the maid Sabina, the eternal seductress, flirts and pouts, representing the childish, selfish side of humanity. Eldest son Henry is really Cain, the bad seed the family must accommodate. Well-behaved daughter Gladys symbolizes the hopeful future. Sabina, originally played by the incomparable Tallulah Bankhead, often breaks character and directly addresses the audience, claiming she doesn’t understand a word of this bizarre play, adding another layer of meaning to the text and making Sabina a surrogate for the audience.
Since the 1940s, Wilder’s wildness has become tame and expected on stages. Does Skin still hold up 80 years later? Yes and no. Lileana Blain-Cruz’s gargantuan production of this rarely-seen work happily goes overboard with highly stylized staging and acting. It works quite well in the first act when a wall of ice menaces the Antrobus clan. The clash between sitcom normalcy and apocalyptic destruction produces laughs as does Gabby Beans’ captivating turn as Sabina, who gives a marvelous Eartha Kitt-like growl to her lines and then drops it when she speaks directly to us. As she knocks down the fourth wall metaphorically, Adam Rigg’s inventive set falls apart literally as the ice advances. There are also delightful appearances by a huge puppet dinosaur and mammoth, ingeniously designed by James Ortiz. Kudos also to Montana Levi Blanco’s century-spanning costumes and Yi Zhao’s evocative lighting.
But in the second act, which parodies Noah’s flood as the Antrobuses vacation in Atlantic City for a convention of mammals, Blain-Cruz’s staging gets cluttered and confused. Transgender showgirls, conventioneers and actors with giraffe heads crowd the stage. The third act, attacking the question of war, works better due to the direct, focused action (Father and son Antrobuses in conflict, and father struggling to regain his belief in mankind.)
There has been some updating of the script, but not much. The brilliant playwright Branden Jacobs-Jenkins is credited with “additional material” which consists of switching outdated allusions to references to August Wilson, Maya Angelou, and Bell Hooks. The huge cast is ethnically diverse, emphasizing the effect of disaster on communities of color. In addition to Beans’ enchanting Sabina, there is sturdy portraiture James Vincent Meredith’s fatherly Mr. Antrobus, Rosyln Ruff’s indestructible Mrs. Antrobus, Julian Robertson’s fiery Henry, Paige Gilbert’s girlish but mature Gladys, and Priscilla Lopez’s enigmatic and all-wise Fortune Teller. At nearly three hours, there are both exciting and head-scratching moments in this enormous show, but it still has plenty of humorous and piercing insights into the human condition.
