LOS
ANGELES TIMES
April
16, 2004
THEATER
REVIEW
'Talking Cure' manages to turn Jung and Freud into a
couple of bores.
By Rob Kendt
If we only had a couch to
take "The Talking Cure."
It's
apropos not only because Christopher Hampton's new play, now at the Mark Taper
Forum, features founding figures of psychoanalysis: Freud, Jung and their
sometime protege Sabina Spielrein.
A
couch seat also suits Hampton's reverent, simplistic portrait of these
pioneers, which comes off as the sort of studied, speechifying docudrama for
which cable television was meant.
Whatever
their quirks or blind spots, surely the fathers of psychoanalysis were
interesting company, at least. But somehow Hampton has managed to drain the
fraught relationship of two fascinating men of all vital signs.
Intellectual
vigor, competitive spark, anxiety of influence--all are missing in action from
this lifeless tintype.
The
addition of Spielrein as a fulcrum between the two heavyweights adds some color
and variety to this dreary rivalry, certainly. As played by Abby Brammell,
she's even an occasionally compelling figure, particularly in a first act
dominated by her treatment under the solicitous Dr. Jung (Sam Robards).
"Perhaps
she's the one-- the one you've been waiting for," says Jung's loyal wife
Emma (Sue Cremin (cq)) when he tells her about his latest patient, and
considers trying a new method proposed by Freud.
"Talk?"
Sabina asks incredulously in her first session with Jung. "Yes. Just
talk," Jung replies, leaning slightly forward over primly crossed legs,
his pad at the ready.
This
elementary Q & A approach, which Jung first mispronounces as
"psych-analysis," gets lightning-quick results. Sabina immediately
uncovers parental abuse as the source of her twitching, writhing hysterics.
When
she later unveils the full extent of her condition, in a riveting confession of
sexual shame, Jung is unable to contain his delight at her harrowing
breakthrough. "Thank you," he chirps.
There's
another moment in which "The Talking Cure" evokes this inappropriate
professional glee. As Jung eagerly soaks up the cigar-choked air around his
idol Freud (Harris Yulin) in their reportedly rapt first conversation, Jung
graphically describes the pleasure Sabina takes in bowel retention.
Freud
replies, with the crusty graciousness of a great raconteur who can recognize
someone else's good joke, "That's a nice story."
This
unseemly relish for the juicy stuff finds its fullest expression in Otto Gross
(Henri Lubatti), a whip-smart psychiatric upstart untouched by remorse or
circumspection whom Freud hands over to Jung as a patient but who quickly
siezes the reins of his sessions.
Gross'
coke-fueled arias of amoral philosophizing to a nonplussed Jung--Gross
believes, for instance, in sleeping with his own patients as a cure for the
affliction of monogamy--form the play's briskest, liveliest scenes. Indeed,
they constitute its only sustained moments of infectious intellectual
excitement, of sheer pugilistic pleasure in batting around ideas.
Unfortunately,
after two bravura scenes, Gross never returns. He's fulfilled his plot
function: to nudge the starchy Jung into bed with Sabina, now fully cured and
studying to be a therapist herself.
After
a date at the opera--that proven aphrodisiac, "Die Walkure"--their
affair begins. Animus, meet anima.
Director
Gordon Davidson can't breathe much life into this material, though he uses his
Taper stage as resourcefully as he ever has. Peter Wexler's impressively
versatile off-white hospital set handily changes locations with the help of a
series of deft projections.
All
this theatrical sleight of hand only labors to approximate cinematic editing.
This is clearly the only economical way to put across the play's many brief,
expositional scenes, particularly in a second act that limps to its reiterative
conclusion. But with so many scenes clipped and inconsequential, no amount of
transitional trickery can give the proceedings dramatic shape or forward
momentum.
Apart
from these structural problems, there are the show's character flaws. These
start at the top with the ostensible protagonist, Jung--a man whose seminal
work delved into mythology and the paranormal, and who took metaphysics and
theology as seriously as Freud took sexual theory.
But
in the watery solution that is "The Talking Cure," Jung starts out a
fresh-faced, buttoned-down stiff--and ends up a rather mopey, buttoned-down
stiff. If this good doctor has a glimmer of imagination or originality, we're
not privy to it.
While
the tall, blank Robards bears a striking resemblance to the original, he's as
cold and mechanical as a Swiss watch.
Poor
Freud isn't captured at his peak here. Yulin ambles, lumbers and suffers the
indignities of fainting and incontinence with grace. And he does manage a
flare-up of authentically quavering anger at Jung's betrayal.
But
Hampton's Freud is hard to take seriously, as he's so much more interested in
defending his legacy against allegedly powerful enemies--whom we never hear
from, even secondhand--than in arguing his theories. When Jung begins to admit
an interest in mysticism to his disapproving elder, Freud doesn't rebuke Jung
on principle but instead frets over the public relations damage such dalliances
might do to the embattled cause of psychoanalysis.
This
is "The Talking Cure" in a nutshell. It's a play about men and women
with ideas, what they'll sacrifice for them and how they're consumed or
estranged by them.
It
is not, with few exceptions, a play animated by those ideas themselves.