Three-Finger Exercise

By Richard Zoglin

The center of attention in Art, you won't be surprised to learn, is a work of art: a big, plain, all-white painting that Serge, a well-to-do doctor, has bought for 200,000 francs. His friend Marc, who fancies himself an art buff but hates the modern stuff, is appalled at the purchase and tells him so. Each of them tries to enlist the support of a third friend, Yvan, who has other things on his mind, mainly his approaching wedding. In the brief 90 minutes that French author Yasmina Reza's play takes to unfold, the three will debate modern art, lash out at each other with insults they will later regret, and generally explore the nature of their shaky friendship.

Art comes to the U.S. after much success in Europe and London, where it won an Olivier Award for Best Comedy of 1996 and provided a vehicle for such fine actors as Albert Finney and Tom Courtenay. It has been eagerly awaited by Broadway: finally, in a season when big musicals are getting all the buzz, a straight play with a chance of becoming a hot ticket. The U.S. cast boasts at least one marquee name--Alan Alda, who plays Marc with a few too many sitcom inflections--along with two solid co-stars, Victor Garber and Alfred Molina. Director Matthew Warchus' sleek, mod production (a white set dominated by three chairs and a coffee table) is essentially the same as the one still drawing nearly full houses in London.

Unfortunately, Art is an overrated trifle: one of those small, schematic finger exercises that seem to win critical praise in direct proportion to their lack of ambition. The characters are all too easy to parse: Serge is a modernist but really a dilettante; Marc, a classicist who's a snob underneath; Yvan, an art-naif who goes whichever way the wind blows. The audience has little investment in the clash between them because their friendship seems implausible from the get-go: there's no explanation of how or why they became friends, no real sense of closeness. This might be tolerable if Art worked as a Shavian battle of wit and ideas, but mostly it's just three guys needling each other about everything from Serge's haughty use of the term "the artist" to the way Marc's wife contemptuously waves away cigarette smoke.

The link between art and friendship could actually be a fruitful subject for a play. How many of us have felt a pang of betrayal when a close friend or loved one has failed to share our enthusiasm for a favorite movie or novel? But the issue is blunted here by the fact that the painting is treated as a joke from the start--and a dated one at that. It's the old wheeze about how abstract art appeals only to pretentious critics (and suckers like Serge), while ordinary folks see the emperor's new clothes.

Yet Art may prove that the joke isn't so outdated after all. The play, in fact, is much like the painting onstage. It's slickly rendered; it's got the critics' imprimatur; and if you stare at it long enough, you can imagine all sorts of shadings and hidden lines. But take a deep breath and step back, and it's just an empty canvas.

--By Richard Zoglin