Emotional Reserve The Stiffness And Correctness Of ‘Richard Cory’ Work To Mimic Those Aspects Of The Character’s Life

“Richard Cory,” Through April 1 at Spokane Civic Theatre’s Firth Chew Studio Theatre. Call 325-2507 for ticket information.

Playwright A.R. Gurney is incapable of writing anything less than a thoughtful, intelligent play.

“Richard Cory” may not be his most original work, based as it is on the Edwin Arlington Robinson poem and the Paul Simon song. But it is a fine vehicle for exploring one of Gurney’s main obsessions: The soul-killing emotional reserve of the American WASP.

This Studio Theatre production has an emotional reserve of its own, a certain stiffness in the presentation. This puts a damper on the dramatic impact of the play - only one scene knifes directly to the heart - but it effectively suits, and supports, the play’s content.

The character of Richard Cory, as first described in Robinson’s 1897 poem, is the archetype of a Gurney character. He’s a correct, respectable WASP, and all of that correctness is killing him. In the end, of course, Richard Cory goes home and, with quiet dignity, puts a bullet through his head.

If Robinson hadn’t already invented him, Gurney would have had to.

Gurney’s play fleshes out the story with the kind of details only hinted at in the poem and the song. Cory has an unhappy marriage, a defiant son, a mid-career crisis (he’s a lawyer), and a sick feeling in his stomach. That sick feeling may be physical; more likely, it is the gut feeling that there should be more to life.

Director Kevin Kuban uses properness like a tool in this play, much like the way Martin Scorsese used it in “The Age of Innocence,” which was set in roughly the same era. The reserve actually builds into a kind of psychological tension. For me, this dam of emotion burst only one time, when Cory (Tony Caprile) hugs his son Chip (Dylan Underhill) and sends him forth to seek his own life in the West.

Here, we see the sensitive, emotional man that Cory must allow himself to be, or die. This was a beautifully staged, beautifully acted moment. One might argue that there should have been more moments like this.

Kuban tries to counteract the essential stiffness of the characters by some dramatic effects, occasionally over-dramatic. The most obvious one comes right at the beginning, when Cory walks silently around the stage for several minutes, examining the pieces of his life. Then he walks to center stage and puts a bullet … well, you get the idea.

This opening vignette is not written into the script. It struck me as a bit overwrought, although, as I look back on it, I can certainly understand why Kuban tried it. It’s the hammer-blow the rest of the play lacks.

Caprile is confident and strong as Richard Cory. This role is a challenge to any actor, since Cory must remain outwardly formal most of the time. But I thought Caprile did a good job of hinting at, and often showing, the severe emotional turmoil underneath the surface. One thing that I appreciated the most: He never succumbed to the temptation to let Richard Cory become a sensitive ‘90s kind of guy. He remained, to the end, an 1890s kind of guy, which is the only way of explaining his tragedy.

The rest of the cast did a good job with a host of revolving ensemble roles. Some actors played as many as six different parts, and it’s a credit to the actors and to Kuban that none of these roles seem jarring or out of place.

I hesitate to single anyone out, except to say that the women - Nancy Burney Huck, Peggy Mayer, Mari Morando and Megan Mary West - were uncommonly strong. The men in the cast included Matt Hemmelman, Craig J. Kassa, Oran D. Lord, Ted Redman and Underhill.

ILLUSTRATION: Color photo

MEMO: This sidebar ran with story: HIGHLIGHT The emotional confrontation between Richard and his defiant son, Chip.