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In addition to the crystalline monologues of Daniel's memory, "The Waverly Gallery" often has the unexpected of recorded conversations. But no word is chosen at random here, starting with Gladys' opening sentence: "I never knew it was the problem."
She talks about the end of Helen's first marriage with Daniel's father, but it suggests a more voluntary oversight. And when she describes with fantasy the loneliness of Ellen's dog, who just wants a little attention, you know exactly what Gladys really means.
Always dressed elegantly (Ann Roth made the costumes), Ms. May's Gladys retains the coercive charm of her hostess. She ends most of her sentences with a practiced winning smile that now seems to be anxiously looking for affirmation.
All members of the cast work well as daily detectives, looking for patterns in the rooms. In a shocking moment, Daniel in tears squeezes his mother in his arms and you know he wonders if his relationship with Ellen could ever be like Ellen's with Gladys.
As perfect as performance is, physical production sometimes lets them down. The urban ensemble of David Zinn, with its views of the city beyond, weighs heavily on the playground. And the intervals between scenes – which include projections of vintage street photographs (of Tal Yarden) – are extremely long.
Such objections dissolve as soon as Gladys and her clan come together to form groups that translate both a claustrophobic intimacy and a tragic and insurmountable distance.
The intimate painter of M. Cera is perhaps not Picasso. But in describing his national portraits and local landscapes, he sums up the essence of the play. "I tried to get the details," he says, "because that's what you remember when you think of something, so I tried like a heck to get them as they are.
Mr. Lonergan too. This is what makes "The Waverly Gallery" a work of such hard and compassionate clarity.
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