Dreams Deferred

An apartment. Very dim light. Loud, guttural yelps of orgasmic delight. Laughter. “I wish I still smoked,” she says.
Well, they’re certainly having a good time tonight.

Too bad the mood isn’t maintained in Interplayers’ production of Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune (through Oct. 3). The problem’s in the acting. For most of the first act, line-deliveries didn’t match emotions described in the script; beats were lost, significant moments rushed through and undervalued.

As Johnny — the short-order cook who’s lonely and curious, but determined to improve his emotional lot in life — John Henry Whitaker portrays a motor mouth who doesn’t talk very fast. He’s a passionate guy who displays no passion.

Whitaker doesn’t enact lines, he recites them. He’s supposed to stare at Frankie (Karen Kalensky) intently and doesn’t; he’s supposed to be playful (during a close-your-eyes-and-sit-on-the-floor game) and isn’t. Later, when he’s supposed to express shock at witnessing an act of violence over in another apartment, he’s about as surprised as when you find something that was supposed to be filed under M filed instead under N.

The “open your robe” sequence — Johnny just wants to admire her naked body — doesn’t work as well as in the movie, in which Al Pacino expresses puppy-dog appreciation while Michelle Pfeiffer chatters about this and that, nervously. Here it’s more like a gynecological exam with an irritable patient.

Kalensky’s character, meanwhile, is supposed to be insecure and lacking in self-confidence: She’s not so sure she wants this fancy-talkin’ fella making goo-goo eyes at her, coming on way too strong. But Kalensky’s manner is more festive (let’s party!) and frantic (who is this guy who I’ve invited into my bedroom?!) than insecure.

For much of the second act, Frankie and Johnny (played in this production by real-life spouses) act like a long-married couple, negotiating just how much they can tolerate in one another. They’re feeling older; they’ve lost out on their dreams; they have plenty of regrets.

But director Jonn Jorgensen doesn’t coax much passion out of Whitaker. And in a couple of moments calling for tenderness and physical intimacy, Jorgensen has Whitaker planted over by the kitchen counter, all the way across the stage from Kalensky.

The first-act misinterpretations are unfortunate, because Terrence McNally’s script has several moments that could be touching, and because the acting becomes simpler and more heartfelt in both of the hopeful act-ending sequences.
Kalensky has a wonderful monologue when Frankie recalls her high school prom — illuminated by the sunrise just outside her window, her face glowing with pleasing nostalgia.

A lovely final sequence, rendered simply both in the acting and the directing, has Frankie and Johnny bathed in soft light and Debussy’s music, yet with the romance undercut — realistically, amusingly — by some playful bickering.

So the evening’s not a total loss. But McNally’s script is much better than the performance it’s receiving here.