Ever wonder what it takes to write comedy? To make people laugh? The toll you pay? The benefits you get? The motivation?
Everett Theatre’s “Laughter on the 23rd Floor” by national icon, Neil Simon, tells all, shows all and keeps you laughing in the process.
Not a bad way to spend a night out, don’t you think?
The time is 1953. News that Russia has the bomb terrifies America. Capitalizing on mass hysteria, Senator McCarthy is helter-skelter blacklisting liberals as communist sympathizers; show people, in particular. Fear is rampant. NBC is running scared.
The place is an office on the 23rd floor of a building on 57th Street, New York City. The office is a mad house where NBC-TV’s top comedy writers torture one another into coming up with the country’s number-one weekly TV show. The show features comic genius and admitted lunatic, Max Prince.
That office in that situation is where Simon got his start and the inspiration for “Laughter.”
Imagine having to make millions laugh for an hour every seven days. Add to that a crazy man in charge fighting off budget cuts. Such is the fun house that this Disneyland of a production subjects you to for more than two hours.
Director Asa Sholdez and an engaging cast featuring absolutely hilarious Manuel Barbosa as the outrageous Max Prince, smash the piñata, ring the bell and hit the jackpot again and again, without mercy.
Think nervous, cigar-chewing, duck-walking Groucho Marx pacing the floor back and forth. Think wild-eyed Hannibal Lecter on uppers, downers and in-betweeners. Add Swiss-watch timing, U.P.S. delivery, a heart of gold and presto, you got it, Barbosa’s joke-manufacturing, Max Prince. The guy’s a standup, sit-down, roll-over and die-laughing, one-man show. I defy anybody to see him here and keep a straight face. I couldn’t.
Hypochondria that makes TV’s “Monk” look like a stoic, makes Karl Holzheimer’s Ira a hoot, a holler and a “Duke of Hazzard.” Holzheimer and Barbosa throttling each other over a script, cracks you up, busts you up and leaves you in pieces. I’m still putting myself back together.
A face that freezes with pain every time he zings you with a one-liner makes you ponder J. Ryan Azevedo’s Milt. Maybe some joke-writers actually hurt when they write.
Justin Tinsley’s Val tags the language with a Slavic accent so thick you could cut it with a knife; particularly the f-word, sometimes ad nauseam. But don’t misunderstand. Tinsley’s a funny funny-man.
James Pinto’s the comedy writer who’s always just sold Hollywood a script. Fame and fortune await. Sure thing, you bet; don’t hold your breath.
Michael Hudson is the whiz kid. Collegiate-looking and quick with comebacks, you don’t want to match insights with him. The man is razor-sharp.
Molly Rose Smith is the woman writer breaking the gender barrier. She is proof positive, women’s wits work.
Leilani Aileene Saper is the office girl and wannabe comedy writer. She is proof positive, women’s wits, like men’s, don’t always work.
Logan Wolff performs as Simon’s alter ego and show narrator, Lucas. Unassuming and self-effacing, Wolff sets scenes, fills gaps and connects show to audience.
This is first-rate comedy, just the thing to brighten you up this time of year.
Reactions? Comments? E-mail Dale Burrows at grayghost7@comcast.net or entopinion@heraldnet.com.
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