Waiting for Groucho

Perhaps the Rhymes with Purple theatre troupe convened originally as a support group for people who’ve had family members killed in Marx Brothers-related accidents. Even more likely is that they could be a front for a hedge fund that has somehow figured out how to invest in the public’s general indifference - and possibly even hatred - towards Vaudeville comedy. Whatever the motive, this thoroughly unpleasant production presents a profoundly unappealing portrayal of one of the greatest families in comedy history.

Part biography, part comedy and part inferred historical drama, Waiting for Groucho is a gross injustice to the Marx Brothers in nearly every possible way. Whether it is Chico’s fake Italian accent sounding distinctly Latvian, Groucho coming off as a plump, cut-rate film-noir detective, or Harpo appearing to be a mentally deficient man-child, the play misses the mark again and again. The audience can only sit there, desperately waiting for a recess with one of the semi-faithful re-enactments of some famous but overexposed Brothers' routine.

Alternatively, the writers are of such a caliber that they refuse to wipe their asses with anything but the original copies of Aristophanes’ plays that were thought to have been lost in the library of Alexandria and occasionally, with the very fabric of space-time. If this is the case this is probably the most stunning satire of Samuel Beckett’s work that will ever be brought to the stage.