SEEING Charlayne Woodard in “The Night Watcher,” it’s hard not to marvel how she does it. More than 30 years after she burst on the scene in “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” she seems decades younger than she is, her charms undiminished.
As someone said in “When Harry Met Sally,” I’ll have what she’s having.
So much for the good news about the piece, the fourth and weakest of Woodard’s autobiographical shows.
The theme this time is children, specifically Woodard’s decision not to have any and focus instead on playing “auntie” to the offspring of friends and family. Composed of a series of vignettes, it never really coheres into a satisfying exploration of its provocative subject.
To be sure, there are moments that are highly involving. Particularly strong are the episodes in which a friend’s daughter comes to Woodard for advice after getting pregnant, and another seeks her out after being sexually molested by a relative.
The segment that gives the play its title, in which Woodard tries to comfort her 9-year-old nephew after he’s been terrorized by his alcoholic father, is also deeply moving.
But for each weighty anecdote, there’s another that’s trivial and self-indulgent. A scene in which Woodard relates buying a shearling coat for her beloved Maltese terrier is related with the same breathless intensity as everything else.
Indeed, her inability to modulate her performance, to let us catch our breath, makes the show a wearying experience.
At one point she tells us that, ill while attending her nephew’s track meet, she was under doctor’s orders not to speak — orders she naturally ignored.
There are many times during this overlong evening that one wishes she heeded his advice.