Six Degrees of Separation, and: The Seagull (review)

When John Guare's Six Degrees of Separation debuted at New York's Lincoln Center Theatre in 1990, it seemed to epitomize the Zeitgeist of the Reagan era. Guare's narrative follows Paul, a young black man, and his ruse to ingratiate himself into the lives of upscale New Yorkers. Flan Kittredge, a high-powered art dealer, and wife, Ouisa, live in an apartment that boasts a double-sided Kandinsky and a view of Central Park. Their children attend Harvard, and they schmooze millionaires in hopes of acquiring paintings with which they can make a killing. Paul gains entry into the Kittredge's rarefied world by pretending to be a mugged friend of their children and the son of Sidney Poitier.

Guare's scenario allowed him to tackle themes of race and sexuality and also satirize the greed and hypocrisy of privileged, white America, wallowing in the excesses of the 1980s. It is a measure of the play's impact that it spawned a parlor game ("Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon"), and its title has entered the lexicon as a phrase denoting interconnectivity in our increasingly shrinking global village.

Guare's comedy of manners, while capturing a precise time and milieu, has dated surprisingly little. Cats may have closed on Broadway, but topical references to obsession with celebrity, media intrusion, and sexually transmitted diseases still preoccupy contemporary America. In this respect, Guare's sparkling dialogue seems as au courant as the latest episode of Sex and the City. Moreover, some provocative issues that Six Degrees confronts have, arguably, deepened with time. As evidenced by recent Supreme Court rulings, Americans remain concerned with and conflicted over issues of race and sexuality. Additional concerns about the proliferation of communication technology imbue the play's title with renewed relevance.

The Guthrie's Six Degrees paid homage to the original production yet managed to leave its own stamp on Guare's text. Christine Jones's set made excellent use of the Guthrie's thrust stage as Tony Walton's had done for the Bowman stage at Lincoln Center. Jones borrowed Walton's use of minimal sleek furniture, as well as carpeted geometric playing areas that mirrored the replica of the Kandinsky painting revolving behind the characters. However, Jones deviated from Walton's design by setting the action in front of an abstract grid pattern reminiscent of a Mondrian canvas in line and color. This backdrop evoked a cityscape where other lives and stories were simultaneously played out.

Although Constance Hoffman's costumes lacked the elegance of William Ivey Long's originals, she found artful inspiration in the Kandinsky. Just as Flan describes a Cezanne as possessing a "burst of color," Hoffman's clothes, mostly blacks and neutrals, included tiny bursts of color that referenced the Kandinsky: a turquoise blouse for Ouisa, a gold tie for Flan, and, of course, Paul's pink shirt, a central image in the play. The Kittredges give the intriguing stranger their son's shirt, inviting him to try on their lifestyle; reciprocally, Paul brings a "burst of color" to their mundane, if privileged, existence.

Jane Cox's lighting was expert. Befitting the play's art-world setting, the design was painterly, using light to sharpen form, accentuate color, and illuminate character. Michael Roth's sound design—isolated rings of elevators, phones, and doorbells—punctuated and commented on the action to good effect. It also earned one of the production's biggest laughs: when the action shifted to a police station, the audience heard the familiar sound of the clanging Law and Order prison bars.

The Guthrie production was well served by director Ethan McSweeny. Cadging a page from original director Jerry Zaks, he paced the play at a seemingly breakneck speed, yet it never felt hurried. Like Zaks, McSweeny not only adeptly mined Guare's considerable verbal wit but also offered visual humor. At...