In Terrence McNally's Deuce, we have two old Acting Monuments, Angela Lansbury and Marian Seldes, playing two old Tennis Monuments watching a tennis match. Early in the play, when these two are on, it doesn't matter what they say; it's interesting as these wonderful antiques watch the game. When we cut to the booth where the commentators are, it goes banal. Direction of the commentators by Michael Blakemore is poor, without a believable word from them. Also, a strange, odd-looking autograph hunter is introduced, I can't figure out for what.
There are some good jokes throughout the play; it is, after all, McNally. There is LOTS of tennis history from a scrapbook. The names of famous players from the past and their histories are talked about. And it gets boring as nothing happens. The two actresses are marvelous in their expositions and soliloquies, but the play drifts into dullness as they talk about each other and about growing old. The commentators, whom we cut back to a number of times, are truly stupid, so the word "satire" doesn't work as a description of their attempt to emulate boring actual commentators.
An hour into the play, I began to be sad, despite a laugh here and there, because of non-fulfillment of expectations (or hope) that I would be in for an intellectually and emotionally enjoyable trip. An hour and ten minutes into it, I began to think about what I'd have for dinner. So I found Deuce to be basically trivial, long and dreary, with some cutes. And the weird casting of the fan -- he looks like a thug, a threat.
This was the longest, least interesting tennis match I've ever attended. A double fault: play and director.
