A Newark, N.J., caterer named Walter Hollander is on a European vacation with his wife and daughter. When they are caught taking innocent photographs in an Iron Curtain country—it’s never rightly explained why their itinerary brought them there—thick-accented communist thugs follow them into the American embassy, where they seek asylum. The ambassador is away, and in his stead is his son, Axel Magee, a bumbler and inveterate failure as a diplomat. The Hollanders are forced to get comfy until a solution arises, possibly an exchange for a foreign agent.
The comedy derives from the improbable setup and the new relationships the Hollanders forge in sanctuary. But mostly the focus is on Walter, a typically whiny Allen antihero, brought to life here through the mostly one-note performance of Tony Correro, who gives us a nebbish burdened with trying to stir the audience’s empathy while kvetching ad nauseam. He generates the occasional chuckle, but they are few and far between.
Walter continuously spouts references that indicate the mind-set of Allen, 31 years old at the time of the show’s debut: Sgt. York, the John Birch Society, George Gershwin, the Ford Edsel, Sonny Liston, Jackson Pollock and Walter Lippmann. But even if you’re over 40 and grasp these cultural touchstones, there’s very little funny about them in context. They just seem hopelessly dated.
Director Melissa Williams has her actors play everything broadly in the hopes of unleashing some humor, but often as not, they burden the script as much as it burdens them. They slog through the outmoded parental attitudes, Catholic and Jewish jokes, a slapstick bit or two, vaudevillian dialogue, the tiresome reverse provincialism of the author’s New York focus, a hackneyed love relationship, a bomb hurled through a window, and then the final plot device, which comes in the form of a lame-brain escape plan in Act 2, designed to mimic a kind of happy Marx Brothers confusion but rather stale in effect.
Everyone onstage seems equally befuddled as to how to make the jokes work, though a few players bring something more to their characterizations. There’s a subplot involving an oil deal with a Middle Eastern sultan, a role rife with stereotype, but at least David McGinnis’ exaggerated moves project some life. In the role of Father Drobney, a refugee priest (and bad magician) hiding out in the embassy, J. Spurlock turns in one of the evening’s strongest performances. Clay Hillwig’s communist tough guy offers a refreshingly serious-minded change of pace (even though we know his darkness is all in fun). Rachel Sorteburg plays Hollander’s wife with the right put-upon attitude (though she too often gets dragged into playing the straight man for Correro’s tepid one-liners). As Hollander’s daughter Susan, Angela Gimlin has some nice moments, yet she struggles to find consistency. (Jeanne Ackerley’s costumes for Gimlin are delightful, colorfully capturing the distinctive “pop” style ’60s-era women’s fashion.)
John Michnya, in the pivotal role of Magee, delivers an inscrutable performance. He’s certainly nerdish and bumbling, presumably what the playwright intended. Yet surely he’s supposed to project some lovable charm, and that rarely, if ever, happens. (In his defense, he is forced to soberly utter the line, “Have I told you lately that I love you?”)
More interesting than anything is the incidental music, offering a soundtrack of ’60s faves, including songs of The Beatles, The Rascals, Simon and Garfunkel and The Monkees, plus theme music from James Bond movies, Get Smart and Mission Impossible, the latter three used as obvious tie-ins to the espionage subject matter.
Between Allen’s callow writing and Williams’ loose direction, Don’t Drink the Water never gels, and wading through the corn becomes a psychically taxing proposition.
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