I have always disliked Our Town, going back to when I first saw a production of it in high school. Its folksy, idealized portrait of small-town life made me think, sourly, of Norman Rockwell or the Andy Hardy movies. Seeing subsequent productions did not make me change my mind about Thornton Wilder's 1938, Pulitzer Prize-winning play--and that holds true for the production under review.
Starring Helen Hunt as the Stage Manager -- the gender-bending casting works well -- the production (directed by David Cromer) struggles mightily to breathe life into the ossified Our Town. The Broad Stage has been reconfigured to accommodate Cromer's decision to dispense with the proscenium; the audience sits in facing bleachers with the action unfolding in a narrow middle aisle. It makes for physical intimacy with the cast, a one-on-one connection.
That's the good news; the bad news is that, without rear and side walls to contain and enhance sound, the actors' voices often trail off into space. The cast shouldn't be blamed for this; on the contrary, most performances are strong and polished (the play has come to L.A. after long runs in Chicago and New York).
Hunt plays the Stage Manager in crisp, brisk fashion, making no effort to charm or ladle on the sentiment; Jennifer Grace gives us an ebullient, charismatic Emily; James McMenamin is her equally bright, believable boyfriend/husband, George; Jonathan Mastro is outstanding as the drunken, misanthropic choirmaster, Simon Stimson.
Part of my problem with Our Town stems from its overly long, expository first act; the next two acts move more briskly and contain more drama, with the final moments of Act III -- the back-from-the-dead scene -- taking place in a surprise setting that shows Cromer's directorial genius.
Our Town ends on a note of poignancy and sadness, with Emily crying out from the grave, "Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you," but Wilder makes her such a precocious child, such a saint really, that I expected her to sprout wings.
