The speaking characters, originally called “A”, “B”, and “C” and representing, respectively, an old, a middle-aged and a young woman, are playing out a dramatic musicale, if you will. They are physically coequal in one respect: each is statuesque and that foretells they may share other bonds, too.

At the opening of Act One, the old woman (“A”) settles into a bland telling of her life’s episodes. The young woman (“C”, a visiting paralegal come to help “A” get her accounts under control) settles meanwhile into incessant, argumentative repartee concerning “A”’s misstatement of her age by one year, “A”’s use of snide social epithets and colloquialisms most of us outgrow as society changes, plus other picayune matters of no consequence.

Meanwhile, woman “B” (“A”’s caretaker) busies herself as referee between the two while shuttling the helpless old gal back and forth to the toilet, to her chair, up and down...out and in, always in motion.

At first, Albee seems bent on teasing or confusing us until we begin to realize the musicale comprises parody parts: “C”, an officious and particularly humorless social dweeb of the MBA class, is assigned punctilious percussion,; “B”, the reasonable voice with scant dissonance to offer, gives rise to a lyrical melody of compromise, attention to detail, and a live-and-let-live attitude; and, “A”, meanders through an only half-remembered ramble whose theme is “Aw, to hell with ‘em all, I’m old” -- prattle propped up by senility which at least saves her from even remembering most of the time what she’s been talking about.. The act closes down with an unexpected caesura, as “A” suffers a stroke and becomes confined to her bed, comatose.

In Act Two, Albee’s truly gifted, contrapuntal writing takes over as the female trio -- now unified as one woman in three persons at different ages and levels of experience -- are brought together in life’s review, mostly for the benefit of the young “C”, who cannot accept that she will turn into either an omniscient but nonetheless embittered “B” in just a scant 26 years; or reach the end of her earthly time as the imperious old dame (who, really, bottom line, is detestable in many ways).

Act Two also brings the entrance of the prodigal, a bit tardy arriving to his mother’s deathbed, yet armed with her favorite confections and a bouquet of her precious freesia. His part is mute, but his actions are not. We discover the son’s expulsion from family (and, presumably, fortune) because of mama’s distress over his homosexuality. How convenient he appears with mama deeply into her coma...no danger of either having to talk things through. Yet the trio’s efforts redouble instead, as they break into a frenzied fugue where we share in Albee’s failed reconciliation with his own mother, both onstage or off; then comes the final, triumphal, mocking ode to joy as interpreted by the spectral trio, each holding fast and proud to various degrees of accomplishment in the ripening of their accumulated flaws.

Edward Albee was adopted into a northeastern family of presumably puritanical virtue. His parents were denizens and supporters of the theatre, his grandfather a noted vaudeville-era producer who traveled with successful shows of questionable taste. Albee frequently uses his craft work as an autobiographical shield, although he had early desires to pursue musical composition. Knowing this, we may excuse Albee’s preference for structure over plot. Otherwise, trying to make complete sense of some of his work is impaired by a thickness through which his audiences must slog with all their wits intact. That Albee suffered banishment from his New England home for his gay nature might have been a footnote in the lives of other playwrights of comparable stature and success. With Albee, on the other hand, it is the psychoanalytical focus of much of his writing, including Three Tall Women.

During intermission, the crowd in the lobby was clearly mulling things over and the men seemed to have less favorable opinions than the women. Albee is not in the least generous to males in this work. Consulting the one woman in my life who has experience and perspective taken from several levels described in the play (e.g. my wife), I asked if she thought Albee had gotten the mother-son relationship right as to archetypal behavior. Was I ever surprised to hear her answer “Yes!” with conviction. By the end of the play, one can appreciate Albee’s perceptive genius, though you may not agree with all his theses about the male of the specie.

Freud would have worn out his pipe reviewing this work.

Support the fact that mothers may, by their own designs, try to remake first their imperfect husbands and failing that, their sons, into somewhat more perfect fellas (at least from a woman’s perspective). Analyze the results and realize, too, that this seldom works, lest the world would have changed eons ago into a very different place. My wife suggested that our whole family icon as fundamental core of humankind may be but a strongly imbedded myth and I tend to agree with her. Thus if this tale be one of exorcism, as we are told, it is equally telling to hear that Albee afterwards confessed to his liking his mother perhaps even less than before he roasted her on the spit of public opinion in 1991.

Antoinette Brennan portrays the old woman, Jane Underhill the middle-aged, and Rachel Manteuffel the youngest incarnation. The part of the son, which is lineless, is played by Roman Alis.

Through little fault of her own except for a preoccupation with her enunciation and some timing issues, Miss Manteuffel seemed a bit ill-at-ease with her first Act character. While young professional women have hardly developed personas we might term arch or sophisticated, Miss Manteuffel misses the opportunity to deliver the irritating repartee she’s given in Act One in a more flippant, rhythmic cadence. The tone is less vaguely bitchy as it is deeply annoying, and we wonder why the old woman or the caretaker (or both) don’t simply pitch this infected little twit out the door. Alas, Albee doesn’t clue us in on the junior role in the scheme until far into the act when other clues become clear, as well; thus we are distracted by her. Miss Manteuffel’s recovery in Act Two (wherein she is the old woman some sixty years earlier) is much more convincing. It is she of the tender age who wants to know how life will all turn out. The other two dames snuff out any flame of hope with glee, reeling off the whole dark litany of the future -- the description of the husband-to-be is funny but absolutely appalling, even down to the poor sod’s bribes in order to ante up for his wants and desires of the marriage bed. It’s all brutal to watch (though in ways, all too true) and dashes the living hell out of youth’s hope-filled aspirations. Here, Manteuffel clearly shows us the reserves of her acting experience without hesitation.

Jane Underhill and Antoinette Brennan are fabulous, nothing short of it. The audience on opening night probably related most to Miss Underhill’s character (“B”), as we were contemporaneous, so to speak. It is from her self-made throne in middle age that she delivered her finest barbs, her most visceral rants of acrimony at the returned son, all the while regaling us -- and the younger woman -- in the finer points of infidelity and modern marriage: through “B”, for instance, we share Albee’s conviction that women cheat because of loneliness or boredom, while men cheat because they’re men. Underhill’s hidden character, so antagonistic against her previous caretaker role is a bit of a shock but not unexpected. She occasionally steps in, yet again, to tamp down the conflicts between callow youth and dotty old age. I appreciated the studied contrast and oh, did I enjoy when the trio pantomimed their past life as a department store fashion model; Underhill is an elegantly graceful dancer and moves like a soft summer cloud.

As well, Miss Underhill makes sublime use of facial expressions while suppressing the urge to empathize with the younger woman during the inquisition of the second act. I would have hoped that blocking alone would not have given undue advantage to those of us seated behind the bed to observe these sometimes sly, always knowing arches of the brow, twinkles of the eye, and so forth, all at the right moment. In either act, the understanding of the vicissitudes of mortal decline and resulting sympathy toward our elderly protagonist was just right.

(NOTE: The show is staged in the round and seating choices, while not necessarily favored in Director Richard Palmer’s blocking decisions, may have made some difference in the subtler gestures and mannerisms the actors brought to their roles). It is surprising how certain speechless parts grab attention in ways one wouldn’t expect. Mr Alis’ plays the son with a caring gaze, even when being hammered in turn by the two older versions of his loveless mother. If one can capture the notion of compassion in mere slight gestures, Mr Alis accomplished his task. Otherwise, he allowed his physical presence to be subsumed by the glorious trio, not to his detriment. (Why any son would have bothered to make the trip, much less seek reconciliation with such a rancid soul -- even if obligatory in some worldly respect -- is beyond me).

Young, growing, learning actors should not miss the performance given by Antoinette Brennan, nor should the regular theatergoer for that matter. Our old woman, God bless ‘er, is such an inevitable boatload of accumulated prejudices, mock pieties, and figurative gestures -- the oft-wagging finger punctuating each accusation that her help in this life do nothing for her but take advantage -- plussed-up with halts in mid-sentence as the synapses short out...Why, my God, that’s my Mother onstage! (Why, my God, Is that my mother onstage?) Miss Brennan’s portrayal is so good, so impeccably prepared, one cannot help but be blown right out of one’s seat. Again, if possible, don’t miss her performance; it is inspired.

At the composition’s coda, we are left with much to discuss, hopefully in a direct, civil way.

Three Tall Women’s technical details were good, with a functional set designed by Charles and Carolee Bush. In the original play, the unit set was of a grand bedroom in an old family home. In this set, tailored for the confines of the PBK Studio Theatre and save for a chandelier hanging overhead, it reminded me of one of these condensed “apartments” we put our older citizens (parents...) in to be “assisted” in living. The lighting was straightforward.

Costumes in the second Act were handsome and striking, with each of the women wearing period outfits befitting their stage ages, all in tones of violet. Miss Manteuffel’s business suit in Act One seemed slightly wrong; it played against the character she portrayed in form, fit and style and appeared to be a bit uncomfortable for the actor.

Three Tall Women is a play you’ll talk about long after the curtain falls, so do be sure to take a friend [lover, spouse] with you to enjoy -- if that’s the appropriate accolade -- the writing, but especially to appreciate its excellent cast. What a delight to find such refined local jewels! This production earns a solid and much-deserved “A” from this reviewer.

The Studio Theatre is located at the rear of the Phi Beta Kappa complex, but signs make it easy for newcomers to find. Seating is limited (166) so it is recommended that you make reservations and then arrive in plenty of time to pick out a good vantage point, as seating is open. The play continues, within the repertorial cycle of the Festival which includes “MacBeth” and “Illyria”, through August 13th.