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November 9, 2015
Review: Who’ll Save the Plowboy?
Julie Hays and Alex Vamvonkakis in Who'll Save the Plowboy?  (Photos by Hershey Miller)
Julie Hays and Alex Vamvonkakis in Who'll Save the Plowboy? (Photos by Hershey Miller)

Jeopardy! answer: “In this 1962 American play, a squabbling married couple argue about their child, who may not even exist.”

If you know anything about 20th-century theatre, you’ll likely pipe up with the matching question: “What is Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf??”

But if you instead reply, “What is Who’ll Save the Plowboy??” Alex Trebek will have to fork over some bucks to you as well.

The current production of Frank D. Gilroy’s Plowboy at the Davenport Theatre is the first New York City staging since the play’s debut more than a half-century ago. That the premiere production won an Obie Award speaks volumes about how much theatrical fashions have changed over the decades. In 2015 Plowboy comes off as a creaky drama about shattered dreams that are unsuccessfully patched up with a weak epoxy made from a blend of secrets and lies. It’s interesting as a museum piece, but that’s about it. (This production received the blessing of the playwright before his death in September of this year.)

Albert Cobb (Jerry Rago, also executive producer) was a country kid nicknamed “The Plowboy” when he fought alongside Larry Doyle (Robert Haufrecht) in Europe during World War II. Larry saved Albert’s life during combat. Now, a decade and a half later, in New York City, Larry (supposedly a real-estate man from Florida) pays a visit to Alfred and his wife Helen (Julie Hays). The quarrelsome couple claim to be parents of a young son, named “Larry” in honor of Albert’s rescuer. The elder Larry, it soon becomes apparent, has shown up at the Cobbs’ apartment principally to meet his namesake. But was there ever really such a child? Webs of deceit have been woven in Plowboy by most if not all of the dramatis personae, so it takes a while to find out for sure.

The play—directed by Marcia Haufrcht—finds Gilroy hammering at plot points and character markers as if the scenario were a two-hour-plus Anvil Chorus. Consider, for instance, the opening scene, in which nervously chuckling Albert reminisces about the war while snippy Helen carries on in counterpoint about the socks she’s darning. You feel the playwright’s hand bearing down on you with each contrasting line.

The three principal actors all have some moments to shine (especially Hays, who has a natural, believable presence), but none is able to deliver a truly successful sustained performance. In part this is because they are seriously miscast. Gilroy describes Albert, Helen, and Larry as 35-year-olds. The three actors in this production come off as too mature for these roles—in one case, way too mature. Part of the pathos of the play is that these poor souls are facing irrevocable failure, bitterness, and shame at a relatively tender age. None of that really registers with these actors onboard.

More successful are performers in supporting roles. Spring Condoyan may take a few too many portentous pauses as Larry’s wary mother, but otherwise she makes a good impression. Tom Ashton is sharp in two minor parts. And young Alex Vamvonkakis makes a promising New York debut in a small role near the end of the play.

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Written by: Mark Dundas Wood
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