Skewering Theater (Well Done) in ‘Light’

Standing in a satin nightgown, Broadway diva Irene Livingston screams at Peter Sloan: “Decency is a luxury we can’t always afford!” It’s 3:30 a.m., Sloan’s first play has just opened in its out-of-town tryout, and what could euphemistically be called a “creative conference” between producer, director, writer and star is raging on. The novice Sloan has been driven nearly insane by the titanic duplicity and phoniness of the theater people around him, and he is threatening to walk. Irene’s words ring through the night--and not because they’re wise. They constitute the only sentence she ever utters that comes directly from her heart.

“Light Up the Sky” is Moss Hart’s 1948 valentine to--and skewering of--theater folk. With singular delight and fondness, this American master of urbane comedy brought to life their vivid narcissism at a time when they were at the center of a certain universe. Confined to a hotel suite for one night, his characters act like exiled manic-depressives: They veer between preening grandiosity and abject groveling. It’s as if the transitional ground between the two extremes doesn’t exist, or is simply too boring to contemplate.

To mark the play’s 50th anniversary, the La Jolla Playhouse is presenting a sparkling new production. Watching it now is a bit like watching a classic Marx Brothers comedy (some of which were created by Hart’s frequent writing partner George S. Kaufman, who had nothing to do with this play). If you can keep your energy up during the stagnant valleys, the peaks are wonderfully high. Hart, who died in 1961, traces the evolution of bonding among theater people through tearful declarations of eternal loyalty that turn to vicious accusations when things go wrong. Eternal devotion is soon reclaimed.

Visually, the production is a constant treat. Irene’s suite at the Boston Ritz-Carlton is like a solid creme puff; set designer Allen Moyer fashions the walls with so many pink panels and white moldings that it looks like the Petit Trianon. Michael Krass’ costumes announce an era of easy, often garish opulence, when female glamour was a game of one-upmanship, and when an opening night--even out of town--meant rich satin gowns and capes and gloves. And, with mountains of pink roses and a full bar always at hand, the bons mots, sarcastic asides and punch lines are set off like treasures.

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The cast is large, and each character is supposed to bring some key comic ingredient to the mix. Director Neel Keller does not manage to ignite every performance. But the show is heartily entertaining. The funniest is Peter Bartlett’s Carleton Fitzgerald. Carleton is the director of the play-within-the-play, and even the leading lady can’t match him for grand entrances and florid gestures. With a hand fluttering in the air, he insists on dead silence for whatever pretentious inanity he’s about to utter.

Bartlett’s Carleton doesn’t walk but sashays; he plays the part as if he were blissfully unaware of how swishy he appears. He is a cousin to Corky St. Clair, the hilarious poseur Christopher Guest played in the theater-parody movie “Waiting for Guffman.”

As Irene, Linda Gehringer is queenly in her own way. Tall and striking, with a commanding voice, her selfishness has its own magnificence.

The preenings of these exotic egos wouldn’t be funny if they weren’t witnessed by characters who buy none of it. As Irene’s mother, Stella, Dena Dietrich deflates every overblown sentiment with a low-toned barb that seemingly only she can hear. Her unlikely best pal is Frances Black, wife of the show’s producer. As deliciously embodied by Angie Phillips, Frances is like a wily banker who has the figure of a goddess and the Minnie Mouse voice of an idiot.

The writers, of course, represent sanity, and in this play, Hart lets the playwright have the last word. Barry Del Sherman supplies the Jimmy Stewart decency for Peter Sloan, a man mild and meek until he’s pushed too far. As an older, visiting playwright named Owen Turner, Richmond Hoxie looks literally like a stuffed suit, offering sage and writerly advice behind owlish glasses. As Irene’s boisterous producer, wimpy husband and shy biographer, respectively, Robert Ari, Michael Bakkensen and Quincy Tyler Bernstine fill their seats but don’t bring a great deal to the party.

The evening ends on a note of false energy that disappoints. Better to remember the end of Act 1, one of Hart’s funniest moments, perfectly played here. The inimitable Carleton steps forward to describe something that moved him--enormously, of course--a washerwoman he spied in the audience who he thought was riveted by the play. That washerwoman was, in fact, Irene’s mother, Stella, who sneaked in to get a peek at the show she sensed was going to be a disaster.

His voice dripping with sentiment, Bartlett’s Carleton goes on and on about this washerwoman, who progresses from “a little old lady who will be forever enshrined in my memory” to “a shapeless, dirty old harridan” with “greasy hair stringing out from the rag tied around her head,” while Dietrich’s Stella chokes silently in the background. At moments like this, the glory days of American stage comedy live again, to light up yet another sky.

* “Light Up the Sky,” La Jolla Playhouse, Mandell Weiss Theatre, La Jolla Village Drive and Torrey Pines Road, La Jolla. Tuesdays-Saturdays, 8 p.m.; Sundays, 7 p.m.; Saturdays-Sundays, 2 p.m. Ends Sept. 27. $21-$39. (619) 550-1010. Running time: 2 hours, 40 minutes.

Quincy Tyler Bernstine: Miss Lowell

Peter Bartlett: Carleton Fitzgerald

Angie Phillips: Frances Black

Richmond Hoxie: Owen Turner

Dena Dietrich: Stella Livingston

Barry Del Sherman: Peter Sloan

Robert Ari: Sidney Black

David Kupchinsky: Sven

Linda Gehringer: Irene Livingston

Michael Bakkensen: Tyler Rayburn

John Fiedler: William H. Gallegher

Dohn Norwood: A Plain-Clothes Man

A La Jolla Playhouse production. By Moss Hart. Directed by Neel Keller. Sets Allen Moyer. Costumes Michael Krass. Lights David Klevens. Sound Jon Gottlieb. Stage manager Tami Toon.