STAGE REVIEW : ‘Speed-the-Plow’ Lurches Forward

David Mamet may have won the Pulitzer Prize for “Glengarry Glen Ross,” his pungent 1983 satire of real estate salesmen selling worthless Florida land, but it was an oddly structured piece, more like two thematically related one-acts joined at the intermission.

The best was yet to come.

In 1987, Mamet unleashed “Speed-the-Plow” on an unsuspecting public and proved himself a seasoned master of the aphoristic indictment. Here was a unified play with a single aim in mind: Hollywood bashing. It was as if all roads were meant to intersect right there.

“Plow” has finally plowed its way to Costa Mesa’s South Coast Repertory. It has taken three years to reach the vicinity of the very place it indicts. And the reasons for the delay are almost as Byzantine as the deals discussed in the play. But it’s here, and anyone who’s set foot in a studio will know at once that Mamet’s ear for dialogue did not let him down.

This tale of two guys who’ve been friends since their days in the studio mail room, and the woman who almost pries them apart, is vintage Mamet. Bobby Gould (Gregg Henry) has just been made head of a studio production division. He can decide what scripts get made. That’s better than being God. His buddy Charlie Fox (Joe Spano) hasn’t come quite that far, but this is Charlie’s lucky day. A “star” has offered him a prison script--with himself as part of the package.

Charlie delivers this gift to his old pal Bobby, who can’t believe their good fortune. Bobby’s going to be generous. He’s going to produce the film and make Charlie co-producer. Name above the title. All they need is to present this to studio head Richard Ross. It’s a done deal. And Bobby may not even have to give a “courtesy read” to that novel by an “Eastern sissy writer” that Ross asked him to do.

But Ross can’t see these guys until the next day. They have to wait 24 hours. They can do lunch and give Karen (Kamella Tate), the office temp, the rest of the day off. She’s not good at working anyway. She has trouble finding the coffee machine, the right telephone buttons and a lunch table for Bobby. But, when she walks in and the yokels get an eyeful (Madonna played the role on Broadway), Charlie bets Bobby he can’t bed her down for the night.

This gives Bobby something he doesn’t often get: an idea. He asks Karen to read the novel by the Eastern writer and report to him on it that night at his apartment. When she shows up, everyone’s in for a surprise--the audience, Bobby and Charlie.

Mamet has rarely made so clear a distinction between the sexes. His male creations are robust and finely etched in vitriol. The meaning behind their unfinished sentences is unambiguous. But the character of Karen remains a mystery, at once much larger than the men but less persuasive. Neither Madonna and her successors on Broadway, nor Kamella Tate here, have found the handle to this woman who is neither bimbo nor intellectual giant, not villain or friend, but seems to speak from a spiritual center of truth that she later abandons with a slight push from Charlie. Mamet has left her stranded in the twilight zone, painted in vanishing ink of indeterminate color.

Assuming (as one is inclined to do) that this is deliberate, the problem is a giant one for the actor. Tate, who is tall, soft-spoken and attractive, has a certain coolness and reserve (not unlike Madonna), and the chemistry between her and Henry (as Bobby) fails to ignite. (It might be interesting some day to place this role in the hands of a Judy Holliday type.)

This hesitation applies to the entire production, which, as directed by Mary B. Robinson, is dramatically correct but in need of revving up its engines and hitting the road. “Plow” is shrieking, overblown, almost lurid satire that must start as loud as a movie sound track. Henry comes closest to achieving the right nonstop garrulous frenzy of Bobby’s opening scenes, but there’s too much air stalling the repartee with Spano’s muted Charlie--played as a sort of slightly stupid nice guy who doesn’t show any fangs until the end. The play takes a natural swing downward in the later scenes, becoming darker and more thoughtful until its climactic finale, but that high pitch is essential to its beginning.

The suspicion is that these actors may move into high gear as the play continues its run. Certainly they have the capability and--except for Tate, who won’t find a ready model for Karen--direct exposure to the prototypes. And where, if not in Southern California, could the inducement be greater?

At 655 Town Center Drive in Costa Mesa, Tuesdays through Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays 7:30 p.m., with Saturday and Sunday matinees at 2:30. $21-$28; (714) 957-4033.