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, “Time will tell—or maybe
Newsweek.”

The character is Shylock, for Overtime is a sorta pseudo-sequel to
The Merchant of Venice, starting with the final scene of the
comedy, as Shakespeare ties up the loose ends, and then moving the
dramatis personae to a garden in our own time and our own country,
where Gurney proceeds to unravel them. The criticism of his
Waspiness must have stung the guy more than we thought: with this
play, he’s redressing the balance with the multicultural fervor of