ScheckOnTheater

In his revelatory production of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, director David Cromer unearthed the darkness underlying a play that is usually presented as a paean to a more innocent America. He applies the same approach to the new Broadway revival of John Guare’s 1966 absurdist comedy The House of Blue Leaves, but with vastly diminished results. The production captures the desperation and pathos of the play’s troubled characters, but at the cost of the play’s humor.

This is yet another star-driven revival, albeit one with some pedigree. Ben Stiller plays the lead role of Artie Shaughnessy, the Queens zookeeper who dreams of making it big as a songwriter, and it’s something of a homecoming--he played the AWOL son Ronnie in the landmark 1986 Lincoln Center production, and his mother, Anne Meara, appeared in the play’s 1971 Off-Broadway premiere. He’s joined here by Edie Falco as Artie’s schizophrenic wife Bananas, and Jennifer Jason Leigh as Bunny, the downstairs neighbor with whom Artie plans to flee to California in pursuit of stardom.

As the play begins, we see Artie singing his terrible songs in a seedy bar while being pointedly ignored by the loud patrons. As he keeps desperately pleading for their attention, the scene seems to go on forever, and his pain becomes palpable. Unfortunately, it soon comes to be shared by the audience.

Guare’s play requires a delicate balance of tone to be successful, which director Jerry Zaks provided in the Lincoln Center revival. He was aided by a pitch-perfect cast: John Mahoney, who brought charm as well as pathos to Artie; Swoosie Kurtz, heartbreakingly moving as Bananas; and Stockard Channing, wonderfully funny as Bunny.

Here, the major cast members don’t seem to jell. Falco emphasizes Bananas’ emotional catatonia to such a degree that it simply becomes tedious. Leigh’s Bunny is all surface mannerisms with little of the charm that would entice anyone to run away with her. And Stiller, normally so adept at conveying passive-aggressive obnoxiousness, barely registers in the lead role.

Some compensation is provided by the supporting players, especially Alison Pill, who lives up to her last name with her endearingly daffy portrayal of the deaf Hollywood starlet who shows up at the apartment, and Halley Feiffer, as one of the trio of nuns who burst onto the premises hoping for a good vantage point to witness the impending arrival of the Pope. And Christopher Abbott, as the son who dreams of becoming famous by an act of terrorism, beautifully nails his hilarious monologue about auditioning for the role of Huckleberry Finn for his father’s childhood friend (Thomas Sadoski), now a big shot Hollywood director.

The evening walks a very fine line between wild comedy and tragedy, but director Cromer seems intent only on delivering the latter. On that level he succeeds, with the shocking climactic act of violence rendered with a visceral intensity. House of Blue Leaves has lost none of its relevance in its exploration of both ordinary souls living lives of not so quiet desperation and the irresistible allure of fame. But this overly muted rendition, while occasionally displaying moments of stunning theatricality, provides little of the sugar that would help its medicine go down.

Walter Kerr Theatre, 219 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.

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.

Attention, theatergoers. Sitting in a seat and watching a show is so yesterday.

The truth of that statement is well demonstrated by Sleep No More, the wonderfully immersive theatrical experience—presented, fittingly, by the EMURSIVE production company. This combination of theater piece and art installation inspired by Shakespeare’s Macbeth is uniquely transporting and unforgettable.

Produced by the Punchdrunk theater company, the piece, directed by Felix Barrett and Maxine Doyle, is presented in a former Chelsea warehouse that has been transformed into the “McKittrick Hotel,” with the name being an homage to Hitchcock’s Vertigo.

Viewers are escorted into the building, first entering a vintage, ‘30s era bar. Then everyone is given a Venetian style mask, ala Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut, and escorted in the “hotel” proper, which features some 100-plus rooms spread out over several floors through which you wander freely.

The rooms have been designed with stunning imagination, stuffed with antique furniture and bric-a-brac that you are allowed to handle. Some of them are incredibly detailed and realistic: a doctor’s office filled with medical paraphernalia; a hotel lobby, complete with pay phones and antique room keys hanging on hooks; a child’s bedroom, complete with a tattered teddy bear, and so on.

Others are more surreal and nightmarish, such as a cemetery filled with tiny crosses and a forest with a maze of trees.

During your wanderings, you periodically come across performers engaging in elaborate, mostly silent routines riffing on scenes from Shakespeare’s play. You can either ignore the actors or follow them, although if you opt for the latter you’re more likely to get the thread of a storyline.  

There are times when the experience proves frustrating, as the ad hoc nature of the proceedings means you may miss out on certain highlights. By sheer luck I happened onto one of the show’s most visceral episodes, in which Lady Macbeth bathes her nude, blood spattered husband before launching into a series of frenzied dance movements inspired by the “Out, damn spot” scene.

Fortunately, viewers are essentially herded into a large space to witness the famous banquet scene, which ends with a truly shocking coup de theatre.

The many performers go through their paces with impressive intensity and athleticism, often having to gently push away theatergoers who threaten to interfere with the action.

On a sheer technical level, the production is simply astounding, with its awesomely detailed production designs, the moodily atmospheric lighting, and the eerie soundscape (which includes music from Hitchcock’s thrillers, among other elements) adding to a visceral experience that will haunt you long after you’ve left the premises.

McKittrick Hotel, 530 W. 27th St. 866-811-4111. www.sleepnomorenyc.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.