And we mean that in the best sense
By Starla Smith
As health care heats up the 2008 presidential campaign, a 17th-century farce offers relief, skewering the medical profession with a comedic celebration of the bowels. Commedia dell'arte meets "House," Christopher Guest and "Saturday Night Live" (when it was actually funny), courtesy of Molière's "The Imaginary Invalid," a silly send-up of hypochondriacs, medical charlatans and upper-crust half-wits.
A totally mindless romp, Molière's final play unfolds in a marvelous new adaptation by Constance Congdon, who packs it with witty pop-culture slang and sound bites. Then add flatulence, ludicrous malapropisms and double-entendres delivered by a cast of hilarious characters who bounce off the wall like lunatics.
Under the playful direction of David Schweizer, the actors overact with exaggerated movements, irrational emotions and clownish shenanigans.
Meet the usual suspects - the stock characters of a commedia dell'arte troupe. A double-dealing second wife, Béline. A sassy and shrewd servant, Toinette. Put-upon young sweethearts Angélique and Cléante. An unsavory notary who likes to be spanked. A pompous fashionista/apothecary. And two medicos, obvious quacks in their profession.
At the helm of this hilarity sits the eccentric andfilthy-rich Argan, an incurable, hypochondriac who rules his roost from a doctor's examination chair. Argan wallows in imaginary ailments, shooting off farts like an AK- 47. With an eye on their patron's purse, his physicians prescribe a regimen of daily enemas.
So Argan decides he needs a doctor in the family to avoid the high cost of lifelong treatment. He arranges a marriage between his beautiful but headstrong daughter Angélique and Claude, a medical student who just happens to be the idiotic nephew of his physician, Dr. Purgeon.
Not so fast, daddy. Angélique
has her heart set on another, a cutie patootie charmer named Cléante. Since nothing can dissuade her father from his plan, daddy's little Angel resorts to outrageous trickery and disguises - with the help of crafty maidservant Toinette. Meanwhile, Cléante poses as her music teacher, while Argan's greedy new wife, Béline, schemes to send Angélique to a convent so she can steal her inheritance. And so the bedlam begins, kicking into high gear with deceptions, romantic twists and absurdities galore.
Rocco Sisto plays Argan with a demented mix of David Strathairn, Jon Stewart and Alan Alda. In between the onstage farts - and they abound - Argan often analyzes his own flatulence, as he fans the fumes. Evidently he's able to identify any room he enters by sniffi ng the aromatics. As Toinette, Alice Playten delights.
With the deep vocals of Linda Hunt, audacity of Wanda Sykes and comic timing of Rhea Perlman, Toinette always has an answer, her pristine white apron bow swishing and swaying with attitude. When Argan whines, "It isn't my bowels; it's my heart," Toinette quips from under her gas mask, "You do get the two mixed up, sir."
Sporting corkscrew curls and cherry cheeks, Zoë Winters' exuberant portrayal of Angélique puts you in mind of a fresh-faced Molly Ringwald with the comedic chops of Carol Burnett. Winters' bosom gets squashed into a plaid jumper on loan from either Shirley Temple or Raggedy Ann, while her wailing, over-the-top tantrums would make Gene Wilder proud. But it's all part of a plan to marry her lover, Cléante, a.k.a. Andrew William Smith, who oozes gullible sincerity as her smitten suitor.
Argan's second wife and Angélique's stepmother personifies the hysterically haughty aristo. And Julie Briskman does her proud, whether mama Béline is faking and fawning over her stinky hubby, or whipping the conniving notary Monsieur de Bonnefoi (Bradford Farwell) into shape. Briskman's French pronunciations are an absolute scream.
Though Béline flaunts her sexuality to tempt Argan into making a new will naming her as benefi ciary, she's obviously repulsed by his physical advances. So she pretends she can'tfind his bedroom. "But I made you a map, Cupcake," he gushes. "I've run out of baking metaphors," she snaps.
Designer David Woolard's costumes are wild and fabulous, from the flashy colored undies and medical-green getups to Béline's hot pink peignoir and Marie Antoinette wig, Argan's plush purple robe painted with golden fleurde- lis and the glittery gold garbs the cast dons during the grand finale.
But Woolard's prize costume goes on Claude. This hayseed hack prances about in white tights, shoes with spurs, a straw hat straight out of Minnie Pearl's closet, puffy pumpkin pants with slender pieces of faux straw dangling haphazardly, and the piece de résistance, his cape fashioned from a red-checkered tablecloth.
Looking like a stuffed bird - maybe a capon - Ian Bell gives a bravura performance as the bumbling buffoon Claude de Aria, or "Claude Diarrhea," as Angélique ridicules. He pounds his head against the padded walls, gropes his crotch, squawks at himselfin the mirror and sits down like he's about to lay an egg. Of course, the spurs may activate his tendency to cluck like a chicken when he's upset, a trait his uncle attributes to Claude's unusual way with animals.
As his name suggests, the foppish Dr. Purgeon (David Pichette) seems to have cathartics on his mind. Of course he doesn't administer them - a fey apothecary does all the dirty work. And Brandon Whitehead keeps us laughing as prissy Monsieur Fleurant, who throws a hissyfit when he suspects his pooh-patron Argan has summoned a rival "enema man."
Molière's mischief unfolds on a "Les Miz"-style turntable, surrounded by a padded hatbox coliseum with sections that open, close and revolve. Created by designer Riccardo Hernandez, the Sedona-red outside wall touts diamond patterns, while inside, the same diamond shape adorns a white padded wall.
On opening night, the actors were still finding their stride, especially during the prologue, a "Quack" chorus warbled enthusiastically by the ensemble. Atfirst, you laugh nervously because it's supposed to be funny.
Luckily, about 15 minutes into the show, your laughter turns genuine, and the comedy builds to a madcap musical finale. Listen for a smattering of pig latin in their litany of Latin phrases. Of course, when they sing together, it's not exactly Sondheim. But that makes their musical antics even funnier. Relax, there's no aromatherapy involved in this production - and hopefully no spontaneous audience combustion.
So nix your high colonic and nab onto "The Imaginary Invalid." It may be goofy and gassy, but there's no need to bend over - unless you' refilled with laughter.
The Imaginary Invalid
runs Tuesday to Sunday through March 22 at Seattle Repertory Theatre. Tickets: $10-$59, 443-2222.