Diva Worshipers Playhouse audiences take a Master Class from Maria Callas. by CHRIS DAVIS I once had the opportunity to spend an entire day in the presence of Zoe Caldwell. For those who aren’t familiar with that name, let’s just say that the Australian-born actress/director with her four Tony awards and her Order of the British Empire status is without a doubt a personality to be reckoned with. When she came to Memphis (’88 maybe?) touring in Lillian, a one-woman show about pinko/playwright Lillian Hellman, I was given the enviable task of tending to said diva’s every wish. When the great lady arrived, nothing we had prepared in advance suited her. Her chair, carefully selected because of its visual appeal and near-perfect approximation of Caldwell’s specific height requirements sat “far-far too low” for her highness, and the side-table chosen because, well, it was a side-table, was “much too tall to ever be useful.” Behind the scenes she was every bit as brazen and eccentric as she was on the boards; feminine and genteel one moment, common as an old Dodge the next. Of a life in the theater she shared with me this one bit of cheery wisdom: “If you can think of anything else in the world [other than theater] you might possibly be happy doing — do that, you’ll save yourself a lot of headaches.” Maria Callas, the outspoken soprano, headline-generating consort of Aristotle Onassis and subject of Terrence McNally’s all-but one-woman play, Master Class, couldn’t have said it any better herself. I only relate this story because it was Zoe Caldwell who originated the role of Maria Callas in McNally’s award-winning drama — and because that same play begins with the legendary opera star (conducting a master class for aspiring singers) bitching about everything from the ridiculous height of her chair to the absence of “a look” in her students’ attire. If this opening scene is quintessentially “Callas,” it is likewise Caldwell to the teeth. There is an elusive quality that show-biz people call simply “it.” “It” is something one must be born with; “it” can’t be bought or learned. “It” makes for great tabloid fodder because “it” people are endlessly fascinating — not because of their talents (if indeed they have any at all), but rather in spite of it. Marilyn Monroe had “it,” but so did Jackie O. Callas, and to a large degree, Caldwell. Sara Morsey, who portrays Callas in Playhouse on the Square’s current production of Master Class, sadly does not. This is, of course, not her fault. To Morsey’s good credit, she is an actress remarkably at ease with a difficult character, and her performance is gutsy and often quite effective. But for all of this, she seems in the end only ordinary. To make a character like Callas seem so accessible and human is certainly an achievement, but for McNally’s script to work its real magic, Morsey must be first and foremost “Madame.” There are scenes in which Morsey is astounding in her total assumption of the passionate character. Much of this achievement must be shared with a supporting cast that makes the most out of roles so underwritten that the actors might as well be listed in the program under stage properties. The script for Master Class is meaty to be sure, but it is not particularly strong. At points (like when Maria unleashes a long interior dialogue that includes the line “I give you my big uncircumcised Greek dick”), it is overwrought, and at others (like when she chastens her students, boasting “I walked to the conservatory and back six days a week”), it’s downright trite. Master Class is a personality piece, not that far removed from Hal Holbrook doing Mark Twain or Leonard Nimoy aping Van Gogh’s brother. It’s not terribly unconventional in its lack of conventional structure, and the unfortunate outcome of that is this: Those who aren’t already versed in the lore of Maria Callas may feel a little left out. The play’s self-aggrandizing themes demonstrating how the artist must “bare his or her soul to the world” are almost irreparably hackneyed. When an artist thinks any more about “baring his soul” than a plumber does his behind, there is something wrong with the process. It’s what you call occupational hazard. You can e-mail Chris Davis at letters@memphisflyer.com