Photo Source: Cydne Moore
Subtitled “A very adult fairytale,” the story begins with a literal splash. Despondent magazine editor Judy Lockwood (Jaimi Paige) is preparing to jump into the river, only to be halted by enervated pediatric dentist Stanley Fender (Chuck Raucci). His effort winds up with Judy rescuing swimming-challenged Stanley in the sort of meet-cute scenario that Hollywood once turned out in its sleep. After they repair to Stanley’s tony East Side apartment—in the same building where, conveniently enough, Judy also resides—to dry off and have some cocoa, their all-night gab session seems poised to end in a clinch. Except that Stanley tells Judy that he loves her but they can never see each other again and hustles her out the door. The rising action concerns Stanley’s terrible secret, which born-klutz Judy finally wiggles out of him. The reason he won’t make love to her—indeed, won’t even see her on certain days of each month—is not one of her past-experience fears. Stanley’s neither gay nor married. He’s a werewolf. After a beat, Judy says, “That’s not so terrible,” and we’re in lower-case Craig Lucas territory.
Act 1 follows her efforts to find a cure and his attempts to keep her from a fate that apparently befell many a Manhattan woman, if Stanley’s trunk of kinky apparel he doesn’t remember acquiring and newspaper clippings about unsolved violent ravagings is any measure. Things apparently resolve as intermission approaches. Act 2 follows now-cured Stanley and still-sloppy Judy’s engagement, marriage, and Caribbean honeymoon. Unfortunately, Judy misses the excitement-provoking wolf man.
Director Chris DeCarlo approaches this lunar-fueled lunacy with a post–commedia dell’arte multimedia execution. Set and lighting designer James Cooper provides a triptych of panels against which various locales are drolly projected (courtesy of the Attic Room). Otherwise, the décor consists of cartoon cutouts wielded by a black-clad, white-faced ensemble of actors who play not only all the other characters but also sofas, bathtubs, wet footprints, rustling foliage, etc. Sound designer Linn Yamaha Hirschman does live effects from the balcony. Costumer Ashley Hayes produces a slew of accentuating accessories.
Paige, as innately charming an ingénue as any now working, and Raucci, a morph of young Woody Allen and present-day Steve Carell, make an agreeable odd couple. Paige’s ability to plow through Schulman’s nuttiest non sequiturs with bewildered calm, and Raucci’s knack for physical comedy, particularly his Van Halen–bewigged werewolf antics, are generally endearing. Their tireless colleagues give themselves to the kinetic mayhem and instant mini-characterizations, with Alison Blanchard and James Terry particularly funny as both sets of Judy and Stanley’s oh-so-different parents. Serena Dolinsky (also the show’s commedia movement director), Juliet Ladines, Constance Strickland, and full-throttle Scot Shamblin attack the proceedings with aplomb.
This proves problematic, however, as the clever staging repeatedly calls attention to itself, and the blend of children’s theater and hip self-comment betrays the gaps in Schulman’s narrative. Although some episodes in the vignette-happy scenario convey wit, they’ve only got enough heft for one superior sketch-show segment—“Sleeping Ugly” could easily transpire in an hour. Judy’s accident-prone nature feels arbitrary in its connection to the metaphoric whole, while more air intrudes than fanciful comedy can sustain. The show has its moments, and Schulman’s gift for snappy dialogue regularly crops up, but “Sleeping Ugly” ultimately seems more suited to the small screen than the small stage.
Presented by and at the Santa Monica Playhouse, 1211 Fourth St., Santa Monica. May 6–June 17. Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 7 p.m. (310) 394-9779, ext. 2, or www.santamonicaplayhouse.com.
