The Skin of Our Teeth

Thornton Wilder’s other Pulitzer-winning play hasn’t aged terribly well. It’s not hard to see why audiences at the height of World War II would have responded enthusiastically to this flashy tale of the nuclear family muddling through various end-of-the-world scenarios. At the time, Wilder’s all-out assault on the fourth wall made the innovations of theatrical modernists like Pirandello safe for Broadway consumption. Nowadays, though, with even Fox’s prime-time lineup co-opting such metatheatrical high jinks, the creaky girders of Wilder’s cosmic comedy come to the fore. Skin’s suburbanites’ thrust into the mythic past seems like a page torn from The New Yorker’s “Shouts & Murmurs” column (“Your father’s at the office, trying to invent the alphabet”?). And suffice it to say that the plight of Man caught between Vampish Seducer and Virtuous Homemaker no longer packs the punch it once did, at least outside of South Dakota.

BackStage’s playful production emphasizes the parts of the play that remain alive. It’s perhaps best at capturing the periodic flirtations with absolute meltdown, as Seth Zurer’s stage manager tries to coax Ward-Hays into continuing her performance as Sabina, or barring that, to step in himself. The company makes excellent use of Chopin’s downstairs space; the lobby becomes an integral part of the proceedings, featuring singing muses and rousing addresses. While Ward-Hays never seizes the stage with the full authority that her central role requires, Pacas’s George Antrobus radiates a befuddled largeness of spirit, while Riemer’s long-suffering and dignified Maggie anchors the play’s message of hope.—John Beer