WHEN
A
WOMAN
catches
her
husband
with
another
man,
she
may
find
it
difficult
to
compete,
but
just
imagine
how
she’d
feel
if
her
husband
were
stepping
out
with
a
farm
animal?
In
“The
Goat,
or
Who
Is
Sylvia?”
famed
gay
playwright
Edward
Albee
unapologetically
explores
taboo
romance.
Of
course,
Albee
is
too
smart
to
simply
mine
a
tale
of
interspecies
barnyard
sex
for
cheap
laughs
(although
he
does
a
lot
of
that
and
it’s
scathingly
funny).
His
play
tests
the
boundaries
of
fidelity
and
what
society
is
willing
to
accept
where
love
is
concerned.
Directed
with
great
perception
by
Wendy
C.
Goldberg,
Arena
Stage’s
terrific
production
of
“Goat”
is
a
shoo-in
for
Best
of
Show.
The
action
is
set
in
Martin
and
Stevie’s
too
perfect
living
room,
designed
by
Neil
Patel.
With
soaring
ceiling,
sleek
furniture
and
discreet
art,
it’s
the
sort
of
space
that
reeks
of
culture,
accomplishment
and
good
taste.
The
last
spot
in
the
world
you’d
expect
to
get
a
whiff
of
bestiality.
At
50,
Martin
(superb
Stephen
Schnetzer)
seems
at
the
top
of
his
game.
He’s
just
won
the
prestigious
Pritzker
Prize
for
architecture,
and
is
set
to
plan
a
super
city
somewhere
in
the
Midwest.
He’s
in
love
with
his
longtime
wife
Stevie
(Kate
Levy),
a
witty
social
X-ray
in
beige,
and
he’s
proud
of
his
gay
teenage
son,
Billy
(Bradford
William
Anderson).
Still,
Martin
is
incredibly
preoccupied,
sometimes
even
forgetting
why
he’s
entered
a
room.
When
his
best
friend
Ross
(Rick
Foucheux),
a
talk-show
host,
pays
a
visit
to
tape
an
interview,
Martin
unloads
his
brooding
secret,
off
camera.
HE
EXPLAINS
THAT
he
was
innocently
house
hunting
for
a
place
in
the
country,
not
cruising
barnyards,
when
he
locked
eyes
with
a
nanny
goat
named
Sylvia.
For
Martin,
the
connection
was
magical,
and
the
physical
consummation
that
followed
soon
after,
completely
organic.
Nobody
knows
how
Sylvia
felt
about
it.
But
Ross
is
not
sympathetic.
He
fires
off
a
letter
to
Stevie
detailing
Martin’s
indiscretion.
Not
surprising,
their
splendid
home
is
shaken
at
its
foundation.
Billy
gags,
disillusioned
by
his
father’s
creepy
affair.
Likewise,
sophisticated
Stevie
is
freaked
out.
In
the
play’s
glorious
central
act,
a
gripping
knockdown,
drag-out,
yet
somehow,
civil
fight,
Stevie
lets
Martin
have
it.
Here,
Albee,
the
master
of
the
domestic
quarrel
(no
one
fights
better
or
dirtier
than
George
and
Martha
in
“Who’s
Afraid
of
Virginia
Woolf?”),
is
at
his
best.
LEVY
IS
SUPERB
as
Stevie,
delighting
in
each
carefully
dropped
bomb:
“You
love
me?
But
I’m
a
human
being;
I
have
only
two
breasts;
I
walk
upright;
I
give
milk
only
on
special
occasions;
I
use
the
toilet.
How
can
you
love
me
when
you
love
so
much
less?”
Later,
when
Martin
is
comforting
his
distraught
son,
a
filial
kiss
becomes
infused
with
passion
as
Albee
further
blurs
the
boundaries
of
what
is
acceptable
in
love.
Schnetzer’s
Martin
is
a
sympathetic
character.
He
doesn’t
want
to
hurt
his
family,
yet
he’d
like
for
them
to
understand
his
feelings
for
Sylvia.
It
becomes
clear
that
to
set
things
right,
he
must
deny
his
goat
and
choose
his
family.
Ultimately,
he’s
given
no
choice.
