'Imaginary Invalid' updated and shagadelicized

COURTESY YALE REPERTORY THEATER

According to Argan, the eponymous hero of Molière's The Imaginary Invalid, "Molière and his plays are a load of crap. Making fun of doctors is a cheap way to get laughs." As for the soundness of that appraisal, I'll suspend judgment for the moment, but the statement does reflect many of the play's salient characteristics: foremost, its merciless mockery of doctors and medicine, but also its self-deprecating self-referentiality and its foul language. "Coarse language on the stage is never entertaining," Argan remarks elsewhere.

The Imaginary Invalid, now playing at the Yale Repertory Theater, is the story of a silly hypochondriac and his almost-as-silly household. Or perhaps story is the wrong word. The program calls it a "comèdie-ballet," and it's less a story than a potpourri of tirades against medicine, song-and-dance routines, and requisite romance.

This production at the Rep boasts a world-premiere translation and adaptation by James Magruder. Translations always pose problems—it's hard to know how much content is sacrificed for form—but Molière seems especially tricky as the Imaginary Invalid was originally composed in rhymed French verse.

Here, I had no basis for comparison, and it seems likely that Magruder tried to capture the spirit of the play at the expense of literal translation. The script is littered with contemporary colloquialisms, as well as references to Monica and the Hair Club for Men. There's even, if I'm not mistaken, a subtle allusion to Austin Powers—appropriate considering the play's sense of humor smacks of this summer's crude shagadelic blockbuster. One of Argan's myriad medical treatments supposedly aids "production of number two" and another aims to "release monsieur's ill winds." Let's just say that the audience can attest to the audible success of the latter remedy.

Here's a brief "plot" summary. Argan (Raye Birk), a wealthy hypochondriac, sits in his wheelchair all day, well within range of the bathroom, while his vivacious servant Toinette, played energetically by the splendid Veanne Cox, teases and baits him. His wife (Susan Marie Brecht), an ostentatiously dressed gold-digger whose coiffure taunts gravity, pays him periodic visits, and graciously helps with his will. The interactions between man and wife are inexplicably Oedipal, spanning baby talk, simulated nursing, and the pet name "mommy." Meanwhile, Argan's daughter loves a shepherd, but Argan has other plans for her: he wants her to marry his doctor's son—also a doctor—for his own ulterior, though freely admitted, motives. All of these conflicts ultimately sort themselves out, though none of the characters seems to care too much, in scenes punctuated by flamboyant musical numbers which vary in relevance to the story.

Left to my own devices, I would have been merely confused and mildly entertained by this play. Fortunately, I had the help of a trusty companion as well as the translator's note. My companion offered penetrating analysis upon leaving the theater, concerning things like the nature of death and reality. Since this is a review, I'll spare you his insight (how's that for a little self-deprecating self-referentiality?). But I will share the translator's take on the mysterious musical numbers: "Molière's juxtaposition of apparently unmotivated song-and-dance routines with the plot proper mirrors the uneasy coexistence of fact and delusion in the hypochondriac's mind." Okay, I guess.

This production also juxtaposes the 17th century with the end of the millennium. This strategy seems curious at first, but it ultimately works. The score mingles Baroque music with familiar modern melodies. In this sense it is consistent with the script, which refers to Viagra and St. Johns' wort as well as blood-letting and leeches. The play conveys some idea of the era in which it was written, but the elements that hit closer to home make its message resonate more deeply.

Most of the action takes place in a vast empty room with putrid, saffron walls. In the back of this unusual set is the toilet to which Argan constantly runs. I might have preferred something a little more elaborate, and walls a little less yellow, but as my insightful companion pointed out, the color has the dubious benefit of evoking illness. Moreover, the capable cast successfully parodies the "art" of medicine with plenty of delicious fake Latin, including the phrase "kumquat wigwam," and lots of English words suffixed with -o and -us. The Imaginary Invalid, like any self-respecting satire, manages to make fun of multiple cultures and traditions, as well as itself.

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