ScheckOnTheater

The title of Garson Kanin’s play proves all too accurate with the new Broadway revival of Born Yesterday. This comedy about a crooked businessman in cahoots with corrupt politicians may have been written in 1946, but it seems timelier than ever in this era of tawdry Washington backroom dealings. The same can’t quite be said of its romance plotline, which has become familiar via the endless imitators that have followed it.

The main specter hanging over the production, of course, is Judy Holliday, whose indelible performance as the not-so-dumb showgirl Billie Dawn was immortalized in George Cukor’s hit 1950 screen adaptation. It’s a daunting challenge for any young actress, but Nina Arianda, a newcomer who made a big splash last year in Off-Broadway’s Venus in Furs, acquits herself nicely.

As does Jim Belushi in the central role of Harry Brock, the scrap-metal tycoon from New Jersey who muscles anyone who tries to get in his way. It’s no surprise that the actor would effectively convey the character’s bluster and vulgarity. But in this rather dark-tinged production directed by Doug Hughes, he also conveys a genuine menace that ups the reality quotient even if it occasionally detracts from the play’s humor. When his Brock slaps Billie around, it’s a genuinely shocking moment that produces gasps from the audience.

Arianda, whose sexy gams are well showcased in a variety of slinky outfits courtesy of costume designer Catherine Zuber, is delicious as Billie, infusing her line readings with an amusing Betty Boop vocal style. She’s far more sexed-up than was Holliday, who more effectively conveyed the character’s sweetness and underlying intelligence. When her Billie comes on to Paul (Robert Sean Leonard), the journalist hired by Brock to tutor her in the ways of Washington, there’s little doubt about her carnal intentions.

Unfortunately, Sean Leonard is so stiff and humorless in the role—unlike William Holden, who brought a genuine twinkle to his performance in the film—that the blossoming love affair between Paul and Billie never feels convincing.

The other main problem with the revival is its sluggish pacing, which makes the two-and-a-half hour running time seem even longer. The production never quite crackles, with the actors delivering their comic banter in far too ponderous fashion. This is particularly true of such normally reliable supporting players as Frank Wood as Brock’s scheming lawyer and Terry Beaver as a corrupt senator, although Michael McGrath gets it right as a dim-witted henchman.

It sure looks swell, however, with John Lee Beatty’s lavish set design of a garish hotel suite garnering its own well-deserved applause. 

Cort Theatre, 138 W. 48th St. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.

Considering his brilliant comic turn earlier this season in the revival of La Bete and now his titanic performance in Jez Butterworth’s new play Jerusalem at the same theater, we might as well engrave actor Mark Rylance’s Tony Award right now. We also might as well hand over the Music Box Theatre to this dazzling thespian so he can pretty much do whatever he wants with it.

Imported to Broadway after successful runs at London’s Royal Court and on the West End, Jerusalem is a rambling, phantasmagorical play in which everything and nothing happens. Simultaneously a portrait of its hypnotic lead character, the drunken wastrel Johnny “Rooster” Bryon, and a depiction of an England torn between its mystical past and repressive modern society, it is a work that is endlessly intriguing even if it occasionally tries one’s patience.

 Living in a dilapidated trailer home in a remote wooded area, Rooster is a former daredevil stunt rider who has retreated to a life of drink, drugs and hosting wild bacchanalias for friends and strangers, ranging from his best friend Ginger (Mackenzie Crook) to a pair of thrill-seeking teenage girls (Molly Ranson, Charlotte Mills) to an elderly philosopher dubbed “The Professor” (Alan David).

After a typical night of debauchery depicted in a frenzied opening scene set to ear-splitting techno music, Rooster wakes up and performs his morning ablutions, which include dousing his head in a bucket of water before indulging in vodka and speed. Along comes Ginger, mightily pissed off after having missed the previous night’s festivities.

Over the course of three acts lasting more than three hours, several plot elements emerge, including the impending departure to Australia of local boy Lee (John Gallagher, Jr.); Rooster’s tense reunion with his estranged wife (Geraldine Hughes) and six-year-old son; the disappearance of a teenage girl (Aimee-Ffion Edwards) with whom Rooster has a mysterious relationship; and the efforts of the local authorities to banish Rooster and his cronies from their bucolic surroundings.

But the vague, sprawling narrative is far less important than the depiction of the almost literal force of nature that is Rooster, who regales his followers with such tall tales as an encounter with a giant who claims to have built Stonehenge and who seems to have a mystical ability to control people with his eyes.

The densely flowing dialogue, alternately lyrical and rudely profane, can prove wearisome at times. But director Ian Rickson has provided such an endlessly rich, fully-lived in production that one can overlook the play’s longueurs. The wonderfully detailed set, featuring towering trees and an assortment of live animals including roosters, a turtle and a golfish, provides the sort of surreal atmosphere in which seemingly anything can happen.

The large supporting cast is perfection, although special praise must be accorded Crook, hilarious as the hapless Ginger; Gallagher, Jr., appealing as the personable Lee; and Hughes, deeply sympathetic as the beleaguered wife.

But it is Rylance’s titanic presence that galvanizes the evening. The actor, virtually unrecognizable from his previous Broadway stints in Boeing-Boeing (for which he won a Tony) and La Bete (for which he will surely be nominated), is endlessly compelling, even when his character is simply quietly taking in the madness surrounding him. Using a deeper voice and seemingly thickened body to create a physically arresting figure, he delivers the sort of landmark performance that will inevitably be compared to such similar acting chameleons as Laurence Olivier and Daniel-Day Lewis.

Music Box Theatre, 239 W. 45thSt. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.

There’s fun, if not musical comedy heaven, to be found in Sister Act, the new Broadway musical adaptation of the hit 1992 movie starring Whoopi Goldberg. Featuring plenty of talent both on and off stage, the show boasts some terrific performances, an engaging ‘70s era-style soul-flavored score, and a few raucous laughs. But its relentlessly juvenile humor eventually proves more wearisome than soul lifting.

The book by veteran TV comedy writer Cheri and Bill Steinkellner (Cheers, The Jeffersons, Who’s the Boss?) and featuring “additional material” (read, more jokes) by Douglas Carter Beane hews closely to the film’s plotline about an African-American nightclub singer,  Deloris Van Cartier (Patina Miller), who witnesses a murder by her gangster boyfriend Curtis (Kingsley Leggs). To avoid their star witness being similarly dispatched before she can testify in court, the police sequester her in a convent populated by a gaggle of nuns led by a prim and proper Mother Superior (Victoria Clark).   

Much of the show’s all too predictable humor derives from the earthy Deloris’ shaking up the stodgy convent, in particular her transformation of its ramshackle choir into a roof-raising R&B singing group that electrifies the services and promises to restore the institution’s depleted finances.

For this musical version produced by Goldberg, a subplot has been added involving a burgeoning romance between Deloris and Eddie (Chester Gregory), the cop assigned to her case who turns out to have had a crush on her since high school.

Director Jerry Zaks has apparently punched up the show considerably since its London incarnation, and it certainly moves along at a zesty pace. And some of the musical numbers written by composer Alan Menken and lyricist Glenn Slater are indeed terrific. “Take Me to Heaven” is a rousing opener; “When I Find My Baby,” a love song that takes on sinister implications, is an amusing imitation of the Philly soul style; “I Could Be That Guy,” in which the nerdy Eddie discovers his inner lothario, benefits from Gregory’s charismatic singing and dancing and some dazzling quick costume changes; and the ballad “Haven’t Got a Prayer” is a fine showcase for Clark’s vocal talents.

Miller, a relative newcomer who received an Olivier nomination for her performance, is a real find, displaying estimable comic chops and a powerhouse singing voice as the sassy Deloris. Gregory, so wonderful as Jimmy Early in the recent revival of Dreamgirls, is winning as the lovestruck cop; Clark makes the most of her stock role as the conservative Mother Superior; and Leggs is both fearsome and funny as the revengeful hood.

But the talent extends even to the supporting roles, with solid comic turns by Fred Applegate as a beleaguered monsignor; John Treacy Egan, Caesar Samayoa and Demond Green as Curtis’ henchmen; and Marla Mindelle, Sarah Bolt and Audrie Neenan as a trio of nuns who fall under Deloris’ spell.

While the jokes miss as often as they hit (“You mean I gotta go incognegro?” asks Deloris in an example of the former), there are enough amusing one-liners to keep the evening flowing painlessly.

Much amusement is also provided by Lez Brotherston’s costumes, including the outlandishly gaudy, sequin-covered habits that the nuns sport in the stirring closing number “Spread the Love Around.”

Broadway Theatre, 1681 Broadway. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.

That former sexpot Kathleen Turner, who so memorably raised temperatures in such films as Body Heat and Crimes of Passion, has become a formidable presence in middle age. Her body thickened and her voice now a husky baritone rasp, the actress cuts a striking figure in the new Broadway play High. Playing Sister Jamison Connelly--a tough-talking nun assigned to counsel a hopelessly heroin addicted teenager--she seems like someone you definitely don’t want to mess with.

That her character is something of a cliché is but one of the problems of Matthew Lombardo’s drama, which reduces it all too relevant subject matter to a series of melodramatic plot revelations.

Sister Jamison, who dresses in street clothes rather than the traditional habit, is a former addict herself, which makes her uniquely suited to treat Cody Randall (Evan Jonigkeit), a 19-year-old addict who was sent to her halfway house after overdosing and being found with a dead 14-year-old boy who had apparently been raped.

Assigned to the case by the priest in charge of the facility, Father Michael (Stephen Kunken), Sister Jamison is initially resistant. But she’s given no choice, so she reluctantly begins a series of combative sessions with the truculent Cody, who admits to having used pretty much every drug that exists.

 Every half hour or so, the playwright drops a bombshell, whether it’s Cody’s providing the details of his troubled upbringing at the hands of a prostitute mother or a hidden familial relationship between two of the characters or the revelation of a dark secret from Sister Jamison’s past.

Much of the play’s humor derives from Sister Jamison’s endless use of profanity. But having a nun dropping four-letter words with abandon is about as unamusing as the clichéd cinematic staple of having elderly grandmother types employing similarly would-be shocking language.

Not helping matters is the fact that Cody is essentially a compendium of nervous tics and mannerisms who at one point strips off all his clothes in an all too obvious attempt to shock the good sister.

In between the naturalistic scenes, Sister Jamison directly addresses the audience in a series of high-toned monologues delivered in front of a backdrop of a dark sky with twinkling constellations. It’s during these interludes that the double meaning of the play’s title is made clear.

Despite its manipulative aspects, the play is nonetheless reasonably compelling due to the inherent emotional power of its subject matter and Turner’s compelling performance. The veteran actress commands the stage with a ferocious intensity that would make anyone scared straight.

Booth Theatre, 222 W. 45th St. 212-239-6200. www.Telecharge.com.

Down the rabbit hole indeed.

Wonderland is the sort of horrifically bad Broadway musical that doesn’t come along too often these days. Based on-- you guessed it—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, this new work by Frank Wildhorn isn’t numbingly ponderous like such previous efforts by the composer as Dracula and The Civil War. Rather, it’s aggressively bad, almost but not quite enjoyably so, although that will be scant comfort to those who’ve shelled out for tickets. In any case, look for the poster for this one to quickly join the flop musical hall of shame adorning the walls of Joe Allen’s restaurant. 

The show updates the story to modern times, with Alice (Janet Dacal) portrayed as the recently separated mom of a young daughter (Carly Rose Sonenclar) who is struggling to make ends meet as a teacher while finding rejection of her too dark children’s book from publishers.

When the White Rabbit (Edward Staudenmayer) shows up in her Queens apartment, she impulsively follows him into a mysterious elevator that transports her to Wonderland. There she encounters the classic characters from Lewis Carroll’s classic, albeit in contemporary-Wiz like variations. The Cheshire Cat, for instance, is now the Hispanic “El Gato,” although he’s played by Asian-American performer Jose Llana.

Gregory Boyd and Jack Murphy’s would-be hip book does no favors to the original tale, pandering to the audience with such obvious jokes as a Mad Tea Party reference to a certain current political movement.

Wildhorn’s pop-rock score is thankfully easier to take than his usual operatic, power ballad-heavy efforts, but it contains few songs of note, save for the vaudevillian style comic number “Off With Their Heads” that is delivered in bravura fashion by Karen Mason as the Queen of Hearts. (The actress also doubles as Alice’s helpful mother).

Although some of the numbers feature clever touches, such as the male back-up singers performing cheesy boy-band dance moves during the White Knight’s (Darren Ritchie) “One Knight,” most of them resemble the sort of cheesy production numbers seen on old TV variety shows. It doesn’t help that the score briefly interpolates classic songs from such shows as The Music Man and Gypsy that chiefly serve to remind us of far superior theater composers.

The serviceable set designs make ample use of video projections to convey the dream-like environment. Far better are Susan Hilferty’s frequently witty costumes, although they pale in comparison to the Oscar winning ones in Tim Burton’s recent big-screen version of the tale.

Dacal is an engaging presence as Alice, while the male performers, who also include Danny Stiles as the March Hare and E. Clayton Cornelious as the Caterpillar, go through their paces with dutiful outlandishness. Kate Shindle goes into full diva mode as the Mad Hatter and displays impressive pipes on her anthem-like “I Will Prevail,” but she is ultimately defeated by the material.

Needless to say, the story ends happily, except for the hapless audience members who’ve had to endure the witless proceedings.

Marquis Theatre, 1535 Broadway. 877-250-2929. www.wonderlandonbroadway.com.