Cat On A Hot Tin Roof

To start, Cat On A Hot Tin Roof is not a comedy. Alison and I thought this was a well-known fact. Yes, there are elements of comedy in Tennessee Williams' iconic play but mostly it's about unhappiness in love and unhappiness in old age.

Someone should have told the audience that surrounded us for this production of the play.

(see below)

But first things first, the cast was worth the big bucks we ended up paying. Terrence Howard as Brick, James Earl Jones as Big Daddy (Darth Vader!), Phylicia Rashad (mom from The Cosby Show!) and Anika Noni Rose (one of the Dreamgirls, the one that sleeps with Eddie Murphy), make up the principals of the novelty of an all-black cast for this Southern plantation drama. So I dutifully spent my hard-earned money for the chance to see such a cast in my favorite Williams play. 

Despite the disappointing audience, I still enjoyed the production. Maggie was especially good. James Earl Jones played Big Daddy as a bit of a creepy old pervert, but it was funny and he was in The Sandlot so I was satisfied. 

(Angry Alison Peterson chimes in)

I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humor. In fact, if we're being honest, I'll laugh at almost anything. 

Arrested Development? Always.

A sketch on the modern-day S.N.L.? Usually.

A deteriorating marriage? Alcoholism? A man struggling with homosexual feelings? A diagnosis of a terminal condition? Lies upon lies, upon lies? Never. 

And this, unbelievably, is where I differ from the rest of the Broadway audience for Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. Call me crazy, but I've always thought that this play's traditional reputation as a drama was warranted. And yet, for most of my fellow theatergoers, it had "uproariously funny" written all over it. Am I exaggerating? Probably. But the laughter was frequent and baffling. Through shouting matches, through serial confessions, through three acts. While I was hoping people might catch on to the seriousness of the subject material, it never happened. Brick, everyone's favorite tortured soul, finds the world's mendacity unbearable tot he point that it drives him to drink incessantly. It drove the people of the Broadhurst Theater, however to hysterics. For the record: When Brick clumsily tries to hurt Maggie, so enraged that he stumbles past the pain of his broken ankle, that is not an elaborate pratfall. No, that is hatred. It is serious; it is passionate. It does not require a laugh track. 

The performances were fine, despite the fact--as Lindsey pointed out--some of the lines were (inexplicably) played for laughs. Don't insult my intelligence, Broadway. When I spend money to see some Southern-fried drama, I want friction, tension and anger. Much like the anger that consumed me for nearly three hours, making this one of my least enjoyable theater experiences.