Gag Orders

By WILLIAM A. HENRY III

When Neil Simon was fresh from his days as a TV writer, he thought comedy was one-liners. As he matured, Simon learned that the most enjoyable laughs come from character and situation. Of Lost in Yonkers he boasted -- correctly -- that its funniest scene has not one joke. Paul Rudnick, 36, the most gifted gagsmith of his generation, has yet to learn that lesson. He excels in Hollywood (Sister Act, Addams Family Values), where narrative is usually written by committee. On the stage, his first love, he has not moved beyond pastiche.

I Hate Hamlet had a catchy premise: a TV actor daring to play Hamlet is haunted by the boozy ghost of John Barrymore. The off-Broadway hit and soon- to-be movie Jeffrey is giddy buffoonery, infused with the pain of gay men's sexual yearning in the age of AIDS. His new The Naked Truth is a big step backward. Loosely based on the flap over the late Robert Mapplethorpe's erotic photos, it has nothing fresh to say about culture wars, Republican hypocrisy, women's self-imposed lack of liberation or any of its other thematic targets. Its best lines concern the clothes sense of upper-class women ("Don't you ever feel like Chanel is really all you can count on?") or the self- absorption of their husbands ("Cuddling? There's hell on earth. How do you know when you're done?") A gay male art pornographer and a lesbian ex-con, gurus to dimwit straights, induce a conservative presidential hopeful to striptease, his wife to pose naked and their daughter to leave Junior League matronhood for lesbian passion. All their problems are solved at once. It seems we have seen this play before: back then it was called Hair, or maybe Oh! Calcutta!