Jessica Goldberg’s Babe records the interaction among a trio of characters in an independent record label’s office. Gus is the infamously abrasive founder who pines for the good old days and shrugs off being #MeToo’ed; Abigail is his loyal right hand for decades who might be the power behind the throne; and Katharine is a young new hire who immediately becomes a thorn in their sides.

 

Goldberg touches on pertinent—and, sadly, prevalent—themes that still dog the music business, notably the good old boys’ network that someone like Abigail has had to delicately navigate. But, although Goldberg gives her a familiar backstory—Abigail signed and had an intimate relationship with a singer named Kat Wonder, who became a huge star in the ‘90s before succumbing to her demons and dying far too young—it remains on the surface, even with a few flashbacks shoehorned in that bring Kat back. 

 

That’s Babe’s biggest problem—all its characters are merely sketched in, underdeveloped. Their interactions and verbal showdowns are entertaining (Goldberg has an ear for clever dialogue) but dramatically insufficient; there’s never a feeling that something weighty is at stake. Katharine is simply a catalyst for Abigail to grapple with her professional relationship with Gus after he’s finally canned for blatant and unapologetic sexism. Abigail takes over but now must deal with the fallout, or even take the blame, for years of such policies. Yet even this potentially interesting twist is given short shrift. 

 

Scott Elliott’s adroit direction, on Derek McLane’s nicely appointed set, smooths out some of the rough edges yet can’t erase the sense that Babe is merely an 85-minute demo for a more in-depth, dare I say longer, study. As Gus, Arliss Howard is properly grotesque and frequently hilarious, while Gracie McGraw plays Katharine bluntly and without much distinction, which also describes her few scenes as Kat Wonder.

 

As for Marisa Tomei, this resourceful actress does much right, like subtly showing the effects of being Gus’ second in command for so long. Abigail also has cancer (of course she does!), and the short scenes of her post-chemo are the play’s most effective, thanks to Tomei’s ability to look genuinely sick and vulnerable. But only at the end, when Abigail exhilaratingly lets loose as another of Kat’s tunes (by the guitar-driven trio BETTY) plays, do character and performer finally transcend the material.