The theme of “tortured genius” is often romanticized. Masterminds in all fields, from musicians to scientists, are portrayed as eccentrics that push themselves to mental and physical extremes. Proof, a Tony Award and Pulitzer Prize-winning play now running at Triad Stage, is no different.
A brilliant mathematician dies, leaving behind hundreds of notebooks of mathematical scribblings. His two daughters, Catherine and Claire, and ex-student Hal deal with what remains of his legacy, through memories and the potentially groundbreaking proofs lying undiscovered in his old house. A mathematician herself, Catherine struggles with the fear of inheriting the crippling psychosis that left her father mentally unable to function.
The play takes place on the back porch of the mathematician’s house, now occupied by Catherine. By far the most praiseworthy feature of the production was the set, designed by Fred Kinney. It included an elaborate two-story Victorian-style house, complete with furnishings that could be seen through the kitchen window, and surrounded by natural elements such as trees and grass.
The exasperated Catherine, played by Elizabeth Kaplow, lolls about on a wooden chair on the back patio for much of the play, spouting expletives and delivering every sentence with a dry punch. Kaplow’s caustic expression, however, lacked variation; she resorted to volume increase rather than change in tone to emphasize irony.
In fact, the actors quickly exhausted the mannerisms of their characters, with the exception of Richard J. Canzano, who plays Hal. Claire, with her latts, hurried pace, and no-nonsense attitude, epitomized the insensitive New Yorker. As Claire, Kim Stauffer spoke in the clichd, condescending tone of the cosmopolitan elite, and every move she made became predictable.
Martin Rader, playing the zealous mathematical genius Robert, became the definition of melodrama. His oddities were often used as comic relief, so when his chance to shine, i.e. schizophrenic breakdown, finally came, his fervent body shaking and pained grimace seemed vastly out of place.
Canzano, playing Robert’s less talented disciple, must be commended for his natural comic timing and mastery of the geeky role. One only wonders why a dynamic character such as Hal takes interest in the indolent Catherine.
But if you can get past the frustratingly flat characters, you may be able to detect a poignant theme or two seeping through the dialogue. Mathematics becomes a way for the characters to work through their problems, from relationships to depression.
Andrew Wiles, a famous mathematician who proved Fermat’s Last Theorem, described this therapeutic process in a quote included in Proof’s playbill:
“Perhaps I could best describe my experience of doing mathematics in terms of entering a dark mansion,” Wiles said. “One goes into the first room, and it’s dark, completely dark. One stumbles around bumping into the furniture, and gradually, you learn where each piece of furniture is, and finally, after six months or so, you find the light switch. You turn it on, and suddenly, it’s all illuminated. You can see exactly where you were.”
Through its discourse on vague numerical concepts and romanticized eccentricities of genius, Proof alludes to a higher perfection reached through mathematics.
Unfortunately, it is unable to attain a similar degree of perfection in performance style.
Triad Stage has its good nights and bad nights, and Proof falls just short of the former.
If you’re still in the mood for a mathematical drama, I would suggest picking up a copy of A Beautiful Mind or Pi for an equally entertaining evening.