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This revival of Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is not a production but a deconstruction. Under Anthony Page's manic direction, the most vulgar aspects of a very effective play are heavily underscored, stomped into the ground or into the howling, guffawing, applauding, squealing groundlings. Crass exaggeration proliferates, and save for John Lee Beatty's set, there's nothing to cheer about. Kathleen Turner's Martha is a new addition to the bestiary, a braying mantis. She has a voice like a baritone sax issuing from an oil drum, and hams even with her silences. Your standard-issue college president's daughter can only aspire to being such a foulmouthed fishwife, and no younger history teacher, however hell-bent on climbing the academic ladder, would have married this anti-sexual, castrating slattern.
Well, yes, one might have: the sorry specimen of a man portrayed by Bill Irwin. This George, barely even a wimp, is a mewling, posturing, frog-face-pulling, spineless hand puppet, with the gestures and grimaces of a used-up mime, hardly an actor. The Honey of Mireille Enos might have been all right had not the director goosed her into excess. Only the Nick of David Harbour, an excellent actor, manages to be adequate, a heroic achievement.
Show Biography - Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?
The greatest damage is done to the play: The cleverly bitchy humor becomes a wallow in unmitigated nastiness, and the preposterous, sentimental ending an unearned plea for sympathy for characters previously made loathsome, which spells artistic dishonesty. It does, however, elicit boundless admiration for Alan Schneider's direction of the original production. How many more overrated British directors are we going to import to become serial killers of American theater?
If time and the ubiquitous Richard Burton-Elizabeth Taylor film version have dampened some of the play's original impact (most of the plot's turns and twists are by now common knowledge), director Anthony Page and his cast - which also includes David Harbour and Mireille Enos as the youthful but volatile "other" couple, Nick and Honey - don't let that stand in their way. They've approached the play with energy and determination worthy of a new work, but don't seek to redefine it as much as reaffirm its status as a piece worthy of notice (and production) in 2005.
Not that they have to do much. While Albee has partially revised the script (for reasons including, one assumes, trimming down the running time), much of it remains trenchant. Alcoholism, the predilection of great powers to war with each other, and even genetic manipulation - aging history professor George accuses borderline-Aryan biology professor Nick of wanting to engineer a race of supermen - all seem both rooted in the play's 1960 New England setting and bursting with contemporaneity.
But the play's central focus has always been and remains George and Martha. They've been married for over 20 years and are now barely seem able to tolerate each other, except by getting drunk, playing games, speaking in their own vernacular of references and insults, and constructing increasingly elaborate worlds of fantasy to dull whatever pain the other methods can't obscure. These tactics work while they're alone, but rip to shreds everything they touch when witnessed by Nick and Honey, who arrive at George and Martha's house (John Lee Beatty designed the perfect claustrophobic, bourbon-colored set) for a post-faculty party visit.
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The greatest damage is done to the play: The cleverly bitchy humor becomes a wallow in unmitigated nastiness, and the preposterous, sentimental ending an unearned plea for sympathy for characters previously made loathsome, which spells artistic dishonesty. It does, however, elicit boundless admiration for Alan Schneider's direction of the original production. How many more overrated British directors are we going to import to become serial killers of American theater? 
