THE STENDHAL SYNDROME
Primary Stages@59E59 Theaters, 59 E. 59th St. Through March 27. Call Ticket Central, (212) 279-4200.
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TERRENCE McNally enhances his reputation as a light ro mantic comedian in “The Stendhal Syndrome,” two short ish plays named after the erotic madness that can supposedly be induced in us by works of art.
Take “Prelude & Liebestod,” the second and much better of the plays, in which three performers – a conductor, a lead violinist and a soprano – share their intimate feelings with us as a Wagner arrangement called “Prelude & Liebestod” plays out in a concert hall.
Two members of the Wagner audience also share their feelings with us: the conductor’s wife and a young man whose main interest lies in flirting with the conductor.
These five, deftly and amusingly directed by Leonard Foglia, utter their monologues as the music swells.
The most dynamic force is the frantic conductor, proudly and cynically enacted by Richard Thomas, who has found his richest role here.
The man is a flamboyant, horny romantic who manages to combine career and sex and who dwells in erotic detail on an episode from his remote past.
He contemplates hooking up in the near future with the young man in the balcony – who, nicely played by Yul Vazquez, has sexual thoughts of the conductor, too.
The conductor’s wife, looking down from a box in a gorgeous pale gown and exquisitely incarnated by Isabella Rossellini, has thoughts primarily of her lover in London.
Meanwhile, the violinist, crisply done by Michael Countryman, is judging (mostly harshly but with moments of admiration) the performance of the conductor, while Jennifer Mudge’s soprano mainly frets in nervous terror.
The play is a delightful stunt, taking us back to the days when the private life of a classic musician was of general interest.
In a way, “Prelude & Liebestod” forms a duet with McNally’s “Master Class,” that homage to Maria Callas.
“Prelude & Liebestod” can be regarded as a tart tribute to Leonard Bernstein, who reportedly shared a thing or two with this nameless conductor.
The opening play is “Full Frontal Nudity,” in which guide Isabella Rossellini introduces three unlikely tourists – professor Michael Countryman, bimbo Jennifer Mudge and goombah Yul Vazquez – to Michelangelo’s David.
It strikes me as a preachy and unsuccessful attempt to write a kind of E.M. Forster story about art enlightening fools.
In any case, it’s dull. Hang on for the second play.
