Quiet desperation of 'The Common Pursuit'

Pictured from left, Tim McGreever and Lucas Near-Verbrugghe in the... — Pictured from left, Tim McGreever and Lucas Near-Verbrugghe in the Roundabout Theater Company production of "The Common Pursuit," at the Laura Pels Theatre in Manhattan through July 29, 2012. Credit: Joan Marcus/

By LINDA WINERlinda.winer@newsday.comMay 24, 2012

A wistfulness has always permeated "The Common Pursuit," Simon Gray's 1984 British comedy-drama about five men, a woman and a literary magazine in the 20 years from youthful passion to the devastations of midlife compromise.

These days, we can extend that feeling to a time, not all that long ago, when publishers and arts councils supported magazines about poetry and smart rooms were piled high with books.

But time has not been kind to this play, which used to seem like more than a "Big Chill" for Cambridge graduates. Even Moises Kaufman, the acutely sensitive director of "The Laramie Project" and "I Am My Own Wife," hasn't been able to recapture the gentle killer-heartache of the American premiere (which included Nathan Lane as the self-dramatizing critic) in 1986.

Gray, the playwright, novelist and memoirist who died in 2008, was one of the theater's most entertaining voices of the disillusioned intellectual. "Pursuit" -- which he rewrote multiple times and perhaps never got quite right -- has less acerbic wit and more depth than the earlier "Butley" and "Otherwise Engaged," but lacks the quiet emotional grandeur of his finest work, "Quartermaine's Terms."

Structured a bit mechanically in four time-jumping scenes, the story begins with the first meeting in the tiny university apartment of Stuart (Josh Cooke), the magazine's purest idealist.

Over time, the group's moral philosopher (the formidably subtle Tim McGeever) is destroyed by his superior insecurities, the heavy-smoking/coughing critic (Lucas Near-Verbrugghe) settles for celebrity book chat on TV, the sweet nerd (Jacob Fishel) finds nobility, the charming womanizer (Kieran Campion) charms himself into corners and Stuart's love (Kristen Bush) loses her exuberance. Hero poets have clay feet. Romanticism settles for self-contempt. Love dies.

This all makes psychological and sociological sense. Unfortunately, these people are not appealing or appalling enough to galvanize their individual trajectories into something more compelling than disappointment. Although the ensemble is never less than capable, the furniture in Derek McLane's functionally clever set changes through the years more than some of these actors. The running gags are not as delightful as they pretend to be, but, be patient, at least the cat jokes improve with age.