Hippodrome's 'Laughter' rings loud and clear
By ARLINE GREER
Sun Theater Critic
When television reached its heyday in the 1950s, the jewel in its crown was "Your Show of Shows," a variety show that ran live for 90 minutes on Saturday nights. Neil Simon's comedy Laughter on the 23rd Floor," on stage at the Hippodrome State Theatre, recreates that era with a nostalgic portrait of the writers who worked on that brilliant trailblazer and of the man at its helm, Sid Caesar. The writers included Woody Allen, Mel Brooks, Larry Gelbart, Selma Diamond and Neil Simon himself.
It's not surprising then that Simon's "Laughter" is one long collection of jokes: one-liners, sight gags and dipsy-doodle situations that go on nonstop all evening. ?The play itself leaves something to be desired in the way of characters relating to each other, and an explanation of why they behave as they do. They are simply funny. They make jokes; therefore they are.
The entire action of the play takes place in a room at NBC, where Max Prince (the Sid Caesar character) has assembled a group of writers to create his show. Each is a top banana in his own right. Milt is a wiseacre dressed in a flowing cape and matching beret so people will notice him. Val, a Russian emigre, takes lessons in English pronunciation so that he can pronounce the "F" word correctly.
Ira, the consummate hypochondriac, dreams of a virus named in his honor. Kenny is the super-responsible fussbudget. Brian, an Irish dreamer, comes up with a new bogus Hollywood contract every week. Carol, the only woman writer, wants to be one of the guys. Lucas, the newest staff member (Simon's voice) tells the story.
They are all devoted to Max, the manic genius whose prodigious talent rules the roost. Their story is told against a backdrop of McCarthyism as it affected the country in the '50s, and a more personal dilemma facing each of them.
Their time has come and is almost gone. NBC wants to cut the show. Comedy satire no longer tops the ratings. Show such as "Leave it to Beaver" are what the networks believe audiences want.
Max and his writers fight to save the program.
However, the fight is not seen on stage. It is reported to the writers by Max, who vows never to give in. While Max fights, the writers create and what they create are jokes and more jokes. Simon packs in one-liners so fast and hard, it takes a quick ear to keep up with them.
One of the play's odd faults is that rarely is a comedy sequence seen that is written for Max's show. The one instance when the authors create a Julius Caesar episode, acted by Max a la Marlon Brando, is truly hilarious.
The writers' affection for each other is not genuinely felt. Max does explain why it's so difficult for him to say the word "love" in yet another funny sequence, but it's not enough to explain the distance among the writers in the course of the play.
For whatever its faults, "Laughter on the 23rd Floor" has that commodity in abundance. The Hippodrome production is graced with a dynamic performance by Gregory Jones as the wild-eyed Max, whose political loyalties give rise not only to his comic genius but to his loyalty to the writers who nourish him. Jones gives a bravura performance, in the role of a lifetime. The others in the cast - particularly Hippodrome regulars Dan Jesse and Traber Burns - are wonderfully fun.
Credit Mary Hausch with directing "laughter on the 23rd Floor" at breakneck speed. James Morgan designed the 23rd floor's office room and Leslie Klein's '50s costumes are typical of the era, quirky and funny.
A back-to-form Neil Simon play where one-liners are everything, that's "Laughter on the 23rd Floor."
