Back in the days when we still had variety shows on TV, there came a moment in every impressionist’s act when he’d explain that singers have always wanted to be actors and actors have always wanted to be singers, and then he’d do Jimmy Cagney singing “The Impossible Dream.” That’s how much of the last month’s theater feels: so many people seem to be doing exactly the opposite of what they’re supposed to do. Take A. R. Gurney. Once upon a time, he was a discreet chronicler of tight-lipped, tight-assed, Waspy New England society. Then, under the guise of A Cheever Evening (1994), he slyly offered us his version of a small Sondheim revue; next, in Sylvia (1995), he gave us a dog who sings “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye”; now, in Overtime, he’s gone completely overboard. In his latest play, at the Manhattan Theatre Club, A. R. Gurney is doing schtick: as one character says, ...

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