Doors is really just frothy British cheek, made even less substantial because Jeff Steitzer's direction doesn't fly with the breathless, free-for-all confidence of a farce. Ayckbourn's comic logic unwinds compellingly, but his conceits inspire Steitzer to throw darts at several different bulls' eyes. When the play starts gushing sentiments or slashing at us, Psycho-style, Steitzer overreacts and pulls the plug on the comedy; streams of punch lines rush by without so much as getting our feet wet. He does negotiate several very funny physical bits; I just wish it didn't all come in fits and starts.
His actors follow suit. Donovan is goosy and mannered, Burke's bimbo is game but out of tune, and Doukas' smart turn as the clever second wife is nevertheless more subdued than a play about a time-traveling hooker requires. David Pichette is good fun as the hotel's frazzled head of security, while the villainous Flynn is going for either a gay John Carradine or a butch Noel Coward, and achieves neither. As for Boyd's heroic whore, she's the only one instinctually rattling off Ayckbourn's drolleries rather than rattling around inside them. If the rest of ACT's presentation had her oomph, the evening would have accomplished much heartier comedy than just the mildly enjoyable time-killer to which we're now being treated.
