THEATER

Atlantic Theater
Dying For It - Nikolai Erdman

Dying for It is the story of Semyon, a man down on his luck and out of options. When he decides to throw in the towel and kill himself, a deluge of sympathetic visitors descends upon him, determined to make him a martyr for their many causes. Swept up in the firestorm of attention, Semyon does take matters into his own hands, but not quite in the fashion that everyone expects. An outrageous satire on the hypocrisy and illogic of Soviet life, this play was banned by Stalin before it ever saw the light of day, and is now regarded as an under-known 20th century classic comedy.

A New York Times review.

THEATER | THEATER REVIEW

A Martyr for the Cause, if Only He Could Pick One

‘Dying for It,’ Adapted From a Banned Soviet-Era Satire

By CHARLES ISHERWOODJAN. 8, 2015

Who can get enough of Soviet-era stage comedies? That’s a joke, of course. Who knew there were any?

Those curious to discover what might have tickled the funny bones of folks suffering under Stalinism may want to attend the Atlantic Theater Company’s production of “Dying for It,” a “free adaptation” by the British writer Moira Buffini of “The Suicide,” a 1928 play by Nikolai Erdman.

“Might have” are operative words here. Although the celebrated directors Vsevolod Meyerhold and Konstantin Stanislavksy both championed the play, plans to stage it were quashed by the authorities. It was not performed in Moscow until 1982, more than a decade after Erdman’s death, so it’s impossible to know how Russian audiences of the late 1920s might have reacted to this mordant satire about a man whose determination to kill himself wins him a host of fawning friends and admirers.

Audiences today, unfortunately, are not likely to find the play an unheralded treasure from the vaults. Although Ms. Buffini’s version has been given a handsome staging directed by Neil Pepe, this bleakly comic portrait of desperate lives in Soviet Russia feels wheezy and labored, ultimately about as much fun as a winter holiday in Siberia. (Grim footnote: Mr. Erdman was exiled there after being arrested on political grounds in 1933.)

The beleaguered central figure, Semyon Semyonovich Podeskalnikov (Joey Slotnick), has failed to find a niche in the new post-revolutionary Russia. Unemployed and ashamed to be living off the meager earnings of his wife, Masha (Jeanine Serralles), he despairs loudly of subsisting in such humiliation. The couple cannot even afford a real room in the grimy boardinghouse where they live — designed in atmospherically grisly detail by Walt Spangler, with paint peeling off the walls in sheets — but instead must settle for a corner of a common hallway.

When, after a bout of moaning over his sorry lot, Semyon suddenly disappears, Masha flies into a frenzy of apprehension, fearing that he has made good on his vague intimations about wanting to die. Before Semyon is discovered cowering under the bed, having simply wanted some peace and quiet — he’s got a nagging mother-in-law, Serafima (Mary Beth Peil) — Masha has alerted the neighbor upstairs, Alexander (CJ Wilson), to her husband’s suicidal threats.

Sensing an economic opportunity, of which there are few under Soviet strictures, Alexander begins spreading word of Semyon’s avowal, offering, for a few rubles, to introduce sundry acquaintances to this man determined to say “nyet” to life once and for all. Soon Semyon finds himself besieged by a series of fanatics, each eager to exploit his death for his or her own ends and ready to dictate an eloquent farewell note espousing his or her pet cause.

Aristarkh, played with amusing pedantic pomposity by Robert Stanton, urges Semyon to die a martyr to the oppression of the intelligentsia under Soviet rule. “Nowadays only the dead may say what the living think,” he fumes. Kleopatra, or Kiki, portrayed with simpering ripeness by the wonderful Clea Lewis, wants Semyon to end his life in the romantic spirit to which she is in ditsy thrall. “This is an age when love is despised, trampled,” she says histrionically, urging Semyon to “stand up for the soul” — and be sure to mention his great love, namely her, many times.

Among the other eager vultures are Peter Maloney’s nicely etched Father Yelpidy, a priest in whom piety vies with self-interest. He’s corralled by a desperate Masha to talk Semyon out of doing the deed and dutifully fulminates about the blasphemous act of self-slaughter. But he is really more interested in acquiring the biscuit and a cup of tea he was promised. And, oh, if Semyon really must kill himself, then make sure he puts in the note a bit about Russia as an “empty, godless universe,” so Father Yelpidy can make a fine example of him and preach a grabby sermon that will fill his empty church.

As you may have gathered, the play essentially turns on a single grim joke, repeated in a string of comic variations lampooning Russian types from the early 20th century. Here and there, it lurches into farce, as when Semyon pretends Masha is the cook so she won’t interrupt his flirtation with Kiki. But the antic passages are not really any funnier than the blunt-edged satirical point-making. Ms. Buffini, the author of the fine World War II drama “Gabriel,” also staged at the Atlantic, has streamlined “Dying” by trimming the roster of characters to 12 from 26, but her jokes tend toward the leaden. Masha, in her terror, moans to Mama, “What if he’s dead already?” Serafima’s retort: “I’ll kill him.” When Alexander’s girlfriend, Margarita (Mia Barron, oozing world-weariness), offers to organize a farewell party for Semyon, Alexander says, “In our classless world, she’s got class.”

A more galvanizing performance in the central role might help. Although Mr. Slotnick works mighty hard as Semyon tries and fails to learn the tuba (long story) and fends off the death-wishing assaults of his new acquaintances, his performance could be bigger. Semyon’s very Russian lugubriousness would be more preposterously funny if Mr. Slotnick gave it a little more oomph. But in general, more oomph is hardly what “Dying for It” needs. The humor tends to wallop you over the head, and then wallop you once more.