Matt de Rogatis is the foremost reason, among several other significant reasons, for definitely attending the return of Tennessee Williams’ 1955 Pulitzer Prize-winning Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at Theatre St. Clement’s after a successful run this past summer.
Every once in a while, you see an actor grab a famous role – this one, the anguished, inebriated Brick – and all but shout from the stage, “This one’s mine.” And then go on to make prior interpreters, outstanding as they may have been, fade for the enthralling moment. The lean, fit, generously inked de Rogatis, wearing a floating-island haircut and foot brace, takes charge of Brick’s fury and crave for liquor until he hears the long-delayed “click” he equates with peace.
His disdain for wife, not-yet-child-bearing Maggie (Courtney Henggeler of tv’s Cobra Kai in her New York City stage debut), is virtually unabated as it distills the air throughout Williams’ fraught first act. His complicated, not necessarily Oedipal tussle, with his father, Big Daddy (Frederick Weller), is explosive, the crutch on which he’s unsteady flying this way and that as wielded by him or snatched by his uncompromising dad.
Perhaps what distinguishes de Rogatis’ performance from many (all?) that preceded it is the attitude he exhibits towards his deceased best friend Skipper, his companion on the football field and off, the buddy whom Maggie and Big Daddy suspect him of loving as a friend with benefits. De Rogatis manages to instill into his work the deep grief he continues feeling for Skipper, a mixture maybe of an unrequited love he showed Skipper and guilt over the resulting betrayal. Bravo for the grief clouding de Rogatis’ eyes.
Good as de Rogatis is under Joe Rosario’s hardly-misses-a-trick direction, he’s met head-on by Henggeler, beautiful and unrelenting as Maggie the Cat stalks Brick’s revitalized love and achieving a place in Big Daddy’s 28,000-acre Mississippi plantation once the cancer-stricken patriarch croaks.
Although speaking a mite too low at the beginning of one press preview, she found her voice soon enough and thrived. If anything is lacking here — and it may be a trick Rosario missed – it’s flaunting her sexual allure more openly before the womanizing Big Daddy.
The never lets-you-down Alison Fraser again doesn’t let anyone down with her betrayal of Mae, as Big Mama can rightfully be addressed. Williams writes her as unremitting in her love for a man who, she realizes – but won’t admit to herself – doesn’t return her love. Her relief when she’s told Big Daddy isn’t dying from cancer but only suffering from a spastic ulcer is lavish, as is her adoration of younger son Brick. What Fraser presents is desperation personified.
Frequently patting a rounded stomach to draw further attention to her pregnancy, Christine Copley as Mae (called Sister Woman) shows how much the devious, eavesdropping lady believes her fertility deserves a big Big Daddy inheritance. As her husband, Gooper is the accompanying schemer. Understanding but not accepting he’s not the favored son, he has wonderful moments when his eyes narrow and he moves in for the legacy kill.
As for Frederick Weller, whose list of valuable appearances is long, the unfortunate and only word for him here is: miscast. Williams came up with the Big Daddy moniker not because he’s a man carrying around with him an air of overpowering size but because he is physically big. When he enters a room, he instantly dominates it.
Weller isn’t imposing in that way, nor accordingly dressed (tight vest and jeans) by costumer Ruth Stage) like a definitive Southern businessman. (This is a “RuthStage” production.) Looking more like Brick’s greying older brother, Weller delivers what he hopes is his best, but his inability to latch on to a believable Big Daddy character is unmistakable. He earns gratitude for a valiant try, but that’s it. As a result, Williams’ inflammatory second-act Brick-Big Daddy confrontation is somewhat diluted, even if Brick’s many down-the-hatches aren’t.
Also missing, undoubtedly for budget reasons, are the several no-neck monsters, as Maggie calls the Gooper-Mae offspring, who are constantly paraded in and out for Big Daddy’s will-writing benefit No, they don’t entirely disappear. Sound designer Tomás Correa sees to it that they’re screeching and pounding, if not credited, on the well-trod Brick-Maggie bedroom door.
Designer Matthew Imhoff provides a dark environment, which is sufficiently acceptable. (Williams requested a rarely accorded nonrealistic look.) Lighting designer Christian Specht does well enough by the upstage fireworks display that carries on behind the indoor Brick-Big Daddy fireworks. But they’re kinda symbolically obvious of playwright Williams, no?
A few random observations linger after this reviewer takes in Cat on a Hot Tim Roof for the umpteenth time. It’s a marvelous title, as all Williams’ titles are, but it quite specifically implies that this is Maggie the Cat’s play. Is it? Certainly, this revival with de Rogatis taking charge and, really, most other sightings, it’s about Brick, the causes of his alcoholism, and the mendacity that habitually afflicts dysfunctional families. Only secondarily does it focus on Maggie’s complaints and cunning.
Note also that Williams, always compulsively rewriting. never seemed satisfied with the drama’s fiery ending. The possibly promising conclusion here – Brick acceding to Maggie’s wish for a child – is the one Williams okayed and subsequently disavowed for the 1955 Elizabeth Taylor, Paul Newman film.
A final query: Is it for update purposes that “fuck” and its forms are spewed? If any reader finds it in the Williams script, please inform this reviewer.
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof opened March 5, 2023, at Theatre at St. Clements and runs through March 31. Tickets and information: ruthstage.org
