Weakly Installed

Mary Wyatt Matters responds to the play Imaginary Invalid, by Molière

Usually, the most important element for a director to get across to the audience is his/her superobjective—why the director deems this particular play to be important. The play itself was written as a satire on the medical profession of the time, among other things. Although this point was solidly made, the strongest sense that I received from the director’s interpretation was his love for the play. It is incredibly difficult to attach evidence to this response, but I will try. I will also attempt to tease out the aspects of the play that I think help explain why he loves this play so much.

First of all, my sense of the director’s love for the material sprang from the set itself. The pink or red (at least, that was the color I remembered them to be) receding frames, the font for the letters W/C, the seemingly slanted stage, and the intimacy between the stage and the audience established an embracing quality and an invitation to approach, to feel at ease, and to enjoy. The set was like an expensive Valentine’s Day card.

There was a marionette-like quality to the movement of the actors on the stage. In remembering the performance, it is easy to imagine them to be floating. This was due to a number of influences—the strongest of which was the director pulling the strings above. I think this play is incredibly suited for that kind of directorial exposition. Certainly Molière’s text was exceedingly expositional (he even brings himself up), and a number of the characters are expositional, both within the structure of the plot, as well as outside (the maid brings up the term ‘exposition’—an integral part of this type of play’s development). Each actor expressed this marionette quality in different ways: The maid established it in her accentuated movements, which incorporated very talented isolation work (a more full-bodied rendition of the old Phylicia Rashad ‘Mrs. Huxtable’ character), which I would have liked to see more, considering her great ability. At first, I wished that all of the characters had more of that swaying quality, but as the play developed, I understood that developing their own rhythms would be much more rewarding. However, the development of the other character’s inherently different movement was not always achieved or encouraged enough. For instance, the actress playing the elder daughter of Argan invited a petulant, almost mannish element to her movement, which would have been hilarious to see exaggerated in comparison to her slight size, as well as in comparison to her more effeminate and tall lover. She arrived on stage with it, but wasn’t always able to maintain that strength with as much gusto as in the beginning, which leads me to believe that she wasn’t made enough aware of its power and importance. The wife of Argan had a natural smoothness and liquidness to her voice and havior, but she could have been encouraged to exaggerate it more fully, towards the direction of ‘Cruella DeVille’ in a good mood. Because the set was so small, it must have been necessary to block each scene very carefully, but I never once felt the limitation in the any of the actor’s movements in that respect. Their movements were strategically controlled, which enforced the marionette-like aspect by the director’s loving hand.

Ironically, the most improvisational or undisciplined movement was by characters which later in history actually became puppets: the commedia dell’arte characters. Although I found many of the interludes enjoyable, the volume of the actresses was a bit under, as was some of the general movement by those particular characters. This was discussed in class, and therefore need not necessarily be repeated in full. However, I will never forget the ‘Aladdin’-style interlude, where a sultanesque performer with shadowed face made multitudinous sexual gyrations behind Argan’s sister. That action completely upstaged the singers, and had nothing to do with the show, but I haven’t laughed so hard at anything in a long while. Actually, the ‘Aladdin’ moment was second only to the time when the actor playing Argan delivered the line, “I knew my daughter could sing, but I had no idea she could sight read!” with such a preternatural combination of innocent surprise, awe, and humble pride amidst his utter ignorance of the real situation transpiring in front of his eyes. I feel like I could write an essay on just that one moment alone!

That kind of singularity doesn’t just occur in the two seconds of its delivery. It has to be recognized for its worth by the director amidst hundreds of other very funny lines; it needs to be chosen as a focal point based on this recognition of worth; it needs to be built towards through the rhythm, pace, blocking, and volume of the whole group scene, and then it needs to be delivered with a life that comes from an actor who is made to understand its worth, and is directed to consistently express all of its humorous facets. Only a complete investment in the superobjective of the play, or a full love of the writing and its performance potential could have inspired such a high accomplishment as was the buildup and delivery of that one line. It is my belief that the latter energy was most prevalent, considering the line’s lack of connection to the ultimate message of the play. (It will be a sheer joy to remember that line and to re-enact it for others in the form of a one-woman show—with admittedly great injustice.)

The main reason I see the director’s love as flowing from the aesthetic and humorous textures of Molière’s play as opposed to the actual message, is due to how much he seemed to directorially ‘drop the ball’ at the crux of the actual message. Somehow, the physical acting, vocal musicality, and enjoyment level of the piece dropped the moment Argan’s sister arrived and tried to force him to admit that he wasn’t actually sick at all. The play suddenly switched to weak realism without the self-awareness which would have made it funny—playing it off as if Argan was really only having a bad dream, which starts to blossom later (rather too late). The audience was forced to view the scene from the less artful and entertaining gaze and words of Argan’s sister, and I think the scene would have been better served if it had been expressed more from the perception of Argan. I also detested the character choice of the ‘enema-ist,’ and don’t understand why the director allowed the actor to make such an angry and sinister choice. The same actor achieved very funny moments as Puncinello, because his inherent anger was exaggerated and made foolish by having to sing goofy folk songs, but the anger was too prevalent unmasked, and really shook the humor out of the later scene.

All was not lost, because the final ‘graduation’ scene returned the piece to its bubbly good-humor and jabs at itself. Argan was again so replete with humble pride and glee at his knowledge and its musical kudos from the ‘academics.’ In whatever form of service the actors performed, there was an incredibly consistent commitment. Their commitment to the director’s love was very visible throughout the play.