“Celebrate Diversity,” the bumper stickers advise, and one wishes
one could. But, in a multicultural age, the enduring uniculturalism
of the New York theater is a marvel
to behold. In the American
schoolroom, British novels, British poetry, British history have an
ever-shrinking market share as teachers and school boards mandate
more exotic pleasures by favored ethnic groups. But, on the
American stage, the ultimate dead white guy’s culture is more secure
than ever. Old plays? They’re British. New plays? They’re British.
Hip stars? Likewise: no American theater actor has the cachet in
Manhattan of, say, Natasha Richardson (Closer) or Alan Cumming
(Cabaret). Foreign stuff? Insofar as any ever washes up in New
York, it’s usually in British versions, from Art to Les Parents
Terribles to Les Miserables. Token bits of multiculturalism? See
how well all that critically admired African puppeteering in The
Lion King would fare without the Elton John/Tim Rice score. Rodgers
and Hammerstein? The only revivals worth seeing come from London’s
National Theatre—and, if you doubt me, compare the tatty homegrown
productions of The Sound of Music and State Fair with Nicholas
Hytner’s Carousel and Trevor Nunn’s Oklahoma! (due in New York
shortly).

You can beef about this, as many in New York’s theater
community do, though not to any great effect. There’s something to be said
for theater as great art, there’s something to be said for theater
as a lucrative business. But there’s nothing to be said for
a