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"The Heiress" Is The Best Piece Of Serious Theatre In A While At ATC.
By Margaret Regan
THE RICH, AS they say, are different from you and me. They
have more money, yes, and money complicates relationships. If
you're a fabulously wealthy young heiress, for instance, living
at a time when marriage is an economic transaction, and women
are chips to be traded by men, you'll never know for sure whether
a suitor wants you for love or money.
That's the crux of The Heiress, a wholly absorbing drama
that's the best piece of serious theatre we've seen in a while
from Arizona Theatre Company. Based on the 1881 novella Washington
Square by Henry James, master of nuanced explorations of human
relationships, the play was written in 1947 and revived in 1995.
Its dissection of the marriage marketplace in upper-crust New
York in 1855 comes vigorously alive in this co-production with
Berkeley Repertory Theatre. Part of the credit goes to playwrights
Ruth and Augustus Goetz, who compressed James' deliciously meandering
prose into a smartly compact play crackling with conflict. Even
more credit goes to the performers, a fine ensemble cast of nine,
but most especially to Anne Torsiglieri as the heiress and Ken
Ruta as her father.
Torsiglieri is sublime as Catherine Sloper, the socially inept
young woman who's already sliding toward spinsterhood in her early
20s. She blushes when she should chatter, she stands when she
should sit and her favorite place during parties at the family
home on fashionable Washington Square is the back pantry. Despite
her immense wealth--she has the expectation of $30,000 a year,
or a million dollars in today's terms--the awkward Catherine has
attracted no admirers. It's not hard to see the source of her
troubles.
Ruta portrays her father, the eminent doctor Austin Sloper, as
a hard-edged, self-satisfied man who has always undervalued his
loving daughter. He's raised her from birth to believe that she
has neither the beauty nor the wit of her late mother, a woman
the doctor has idealized since her death in childbirth. Austin
tells himself that he loves the girl, but he almost never addresses
her without ironic contempt.
"Make her into a clever woman," he tells his silly
sister, Lavinia (Katherine Conklin), a hopelessly romantic poor
relation who's been brought in as a companion to Catherine. When
Lavinia protests that Catherine is a good girl, Sloper icily replies:
"Good for what? You are good for nothing unless you are clever."
Thus when a suitor turns up, in the handsome person of Morris
Townsend (Robert Parsons), Sloper immediately assumes that the
fellow is a mercenary after Catherine's money. What else could
he be, since his daughter has no charms? For Catherine, however,
deprived of love for a lifetime, Townsend's attentions are the
proverbial rains after the drought. Like a parched plant she blossoms
under his flattering words, and she rewards him with her first,
fierce love. Torsigliere's portrayal of Catherine is so fetching
that we believe she's entirely lovable; as Townsend so gallantly
puts it, she's a natural young woman, with none of the silly
affectations of society belles.
Still, Townsend's true feelings are the mystery of the play,
capably directed by David Wheeler. It's clear that Townsend likes
Catherine's money, and likes it very much. When the Slopers are
out of the house, he makes himself grandly at home with the doctor's
expensive brandy and fine cigars, and even examines the crystal
on the mantel, under the conspiring eye of Lavinia. And when the
doctor threatens to disinherit his daughter if she marries a man
he disapproves, Morris' sudden attack of conscience at breaking
up the family is more than suspect. If the play has a fault, it's
that Morris' part is underwritten. We simply don't see enough
of him to make a fair judgment. We know he wants the money, but
perhaps he sincerely wants the woman as well.
What makes the play so engrossing is that we're never entirely
sure of the truth, and we go back and forth from the father's
point of view to the daughter's. Surely the father is right to
be suspicious of a man without profession, without ambition, who
claims to have fallen in love with his plain daughter in a matter
of weeks. On the other hand, why should Townsend's monetary ambitions
so unhinge the father? After all, in their time and place, every
up-and-coming young man set out to marry a wealthy bride. Sloper
himself took care to marry a wife of fortune. And if Catherine's
money is going to be an attraction for any man who wants to marry
her, why not let her marry one she loves with all her heart? Catherine,
whose happiness is the victim of this tug-of-war between two preening
men, turns out to have learned a lot about power and revenge from
both of them.
The story is a wonderfully ambiguous exploration of the tensions
between classes, between genders and even between parents and
children as the 19th-century nation rushed pell-mell toward a
new marketplace economy. Kate Edmund's handsome set, re-creating
a luxurious period drawing room, is an elegant metaphor for the
play's conflicts. At first the place seems eminently desirable,
the prize that will be either withheld or won. But as the play
rolls inevitably toward its tragic conclusion, its walls somehow
close in, its fine furnishings become overbearing, its draperies
claustrophobic. And the money prize, alas, becomes the money trap.
The Heiress continues through Saturday, January
31, at the Temple of Music and Art, 330 S. Scott Ave. Performances
continue daily, excepting Monday, January 26, at various times.
Ticket prices range from $18.50 to $27.50. For more information,
call 884-4877. For reservations only, call 622-2823.
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