Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (Steppenwolf Theatre Company)

By Harry Forbes

Though it may seem that we all just saw Edward Albee’s classic play of sadomasochistic marital sparring – and indeed, that fine Kathleen Turner-Bill Irwin production was a mere seven years ago – there was every reason to import Steppenwolf’s 2011 mounting.

For this is very special indeed, with four sensational performances, and revelatory direction by Pam MacKinnon. Amy Morton is, at first, less an obvious harridan than Turner, Colleen Dewhurst (who played Martha in another excellent revival opposite Ben Gazzara in 1976), Elizabeth Taylor in the film, Diana Rigg in a London revival, or originator Uta Hagen (based on the vivid three-disc set that Columbia Records issued when the play was new). But when Morton needs to show her mettle, she does. And how!

And Tracey Letts makes an almost scarily forceful George once he cuts loose, and throughout the play, he radiates a vibe of percolating danger. He’s a far less passive, browbeaten George than his predecessors in the role.

As Nick and Honey, the young couple invited over to George and Martha’s for an evening of fun and games and heavy drinking, Madison Dirks and Carrie Coon are equally fine. Dirks brilliantly conveys the opportunistic aspect of the ambitious Nick, and Coon nearly steals the play with her fine-line funny/tragic portrayal of his alcoholic, emotionally fragile wife Honey.

Though it's a long play – well over three hours, with two intervals – MacKinnon maintains a riveting pace, and the play’s final moments, with Morton particularly wrenching, have never been better staged.

Todd Rosenthal’s set – book-strewn and worn with time -- is richly detailed. Nan Cibula-Jenkins’s costumes and Allen Lee Hughes’ lighting design are all ace.

This is, all around, an outstanding production of a great play.

(Booth Theatre, 222 West 45th Street, Telecharge.com or 212-239-6200.)

Photo by Michael Brosilow

Cyrano de Bergerac (Roundabout Theatre Company)

By Harry Forbes

For me, the Derek Jacobi-Sinead Cusack Royal Shakespeare Company production from 1984 (London and New York) remains the gold standard of English-language productions of Rostand’s classic, far more so than Jose Ferrer’s much-lauded one, at least as the latter appears on film. I also fondly recall Christopher Plummer’s 1973 Tony and Drama Desk-winning performance in the musical version as also being at the top of the class, songs notwithstanding.

The 1990 French film version with Gerard Depardieu was magnificent, and carried an unbeatable authenticity. On holiday in Paris that same year, I caught a lavish stage production with film star Jean-Paul Belmondo. That, too, was also ideal in its way.

I wasn’t overwhelmed by the Kevin Kline production, and the absolute nadir was a modest production in England with the mild Edward Petherbridge utterly miscast.

In spite of some flaws, the present revival compares favorably with the best of those past productions.

The excellent English actor Douglas Hodge gives a mostly accomplished performance starting with his audacious entrance through theater’s 43rd Street entrance as he loudly derides the hopelessly old-fashioned actor Montfleury, though some of his words were sometimes lost as he endeavored to give vocal variety (and some of the seniors in the audience were clearly having problems).

I felt he didn’t quite nail the poignancy of his death scene. But perhaps he and director Jamie Lloyd were going for a less sentimental approach.

The French actress Clémence Poésy brings Gallic authenticity to her lovely Roxanne, and Kyle Soller made a superior Christian. So, too, Patrick Page’s Comte de Guiche, Bill Buell’s Ragueneau, and Max Baker’s Le Bret head a fine supporting cast.

Lloyd directs Ranjit Bolt’s rhyming but colloquial translation with admirable vigor, if perhaps occasionally too much so at times. This is a singularly boisterous production with a lot of shouting banging around especially in Ragueneau’s pastry shop scene.

Though the stage size is relatively modest, I take my hat off to Lloyd and the production team – including set and costume designer Soutra Gilmour and lighting designer Japhy Weideman -- for offering a convincing illusion of spectacle, and all in all, an authentic spirit that, in my memory, nicely matched the verisimilitude of the Belmondo mounting.

(American Airlines Theatre, 227 West 42nd St., www.roundabouttheatre.org or 212-719-1300)

Grace (Cort Theater)

By Harry Forbes

This is a well acted, black comedy by Craig Wright about an Evangelical Christian couple (Paul Rudd and Kate Arrington) who relocate from Minnesota to Florida in hope of opening a chain of Gospel themed motels. (“Where would Jesus stay?” is the slogan.)

As he anxiously waits for the promised financing, his neglected wife finds solace with a disfigured neighbor whose fiancee had been killed in the auto accident that maimed him. Both he and their apartment complex’s German exterminator (Ed Asner) are skeptical of the God that Rudd’s character venerates, but over the course of the intermission-less 100 minutes, attitudes change.

Dexter Bullard directs the play (first done in 2004) with admirable clarity even with the conceit of the couple and their scarred neighbor occupying the same physical space (setting by Beowulf Boritt), when, in fact, they’re in their own apartments.

Shannon has received the lion’s share of raves – and he is, indeed, superb telegraphing his character’s intense anguish – but Rudd, despite the increasingly unsympathetic character, is just as impressive. Arrington is quietly authoritative. And Asner – not a trace of his Lou Grant persona in evidence -- is outstanding as the unflappable exterminator, handling his two long monologues expertly.

In the opening scene, Wright reveals how it will all end, but there’s enough suspense along the way to hold your interest despite the initial spoiler and some overly talky stretches.

(Cort Theatre, 138 West 48th Street, Telecharge.com, or (212) 239-6200; through January 6)

An Enemy of the People (Manhattan Theatre Club)

By Harry Forbes

“Shitty, shitty, shitty.”

No, that’s not my blunt assessment of the revival of Henrik Ibsen’s classic tale of a spa physician who tries to warn the townspeople that the waters that give the town its livelihood are toxic, only to have them revile him for it. But, truth to tell, this is, in fact, the least effective production of the work I’ve seen on either side of the Atlantic or on screen.

Rebecca Lenkiewicz’s pared-down, overly colloquial adaptation – which includes the un-Ibsen like exclamation quoted above – is largely to blame. Though the production is touted in promotional materials as being “often surprisingly humorous,” that approach seems to me the very problem, with much of the action played in broad sitcom style.

That tact is underscored by Doug Hughes’ direction, and some of the performances, most egregiously, Gerry Bamman as the local newspaper’s printer who is first on the doctor’s side, and then, like the paper’s editor (John Procaccino) and chief reporter (James Waterston) not, and Michael Siberry as the doctor’s crusty foster father-in-law.

As Dr. Thomas Stockmann, the always reliable Boyd Gaines morphs from endearingly enthusiastic idealist and collegial member of the community to radical defender of a more elitist and informed minority view.

The doctor at first believes he’ll be hailed as a hero for revealing the truth about the poisoned waters, but when that proves emphatically not the case, he finds himself at loggerheads with his opportunistic brother (Richard Thomas in strictly stock villain mode as black-outfitted mayor Peter Stockmann). Ultimately, he lambasts the townspeople whose majority opinion, based on outdated notions and self-interest, he comes to disparage with almost joyful vehemence.

Apart from Gaines, Kathleen McNenny as Thomas’s wife, Maïté Alina as his independent-minded daughter, and Randall Newsome as the sea captain who sticks by the family when things get rough, the performances lack texture.

John Lee Beatty’s Nordic-styled set, Catherine Zuber’s period costumes, and Ben Stanton’s apt lighting are all proficient, but the production overall trivializes a great play.

(Samuel J. Friedman Theatre, 261 West 47th Street, 212-239-6200 or www.Telecharge.com; through November 11)

If There Is I Haven’t Found It Yet (Roundabout Theatre Company)

By Harry Forbes

Jake Gyllenhaal, in a complete departure from anything he’s played on screen, makes an auspicious American stage debut as a scruffy Brit. He’s Terry, the wastrel uncle to an overweight 15-year-old girl, Anna (Annie Funke) whose well-intentioned parents are too self-absorbed to fully comprehend their taciturn daughter’s pain.

Terry’s older brother George (Brian F. O’Byrne) is a stammering environmentalist obsessed with global warming and Fiona (Michelle Gomez), a teacher at Annie’s school, who’s impatiently uncomprehending when it comes to Anna’s justifiable retaliation to her cruel classmates.

Gyllenhaal’s English accent never falters, and despite his character’s crude talk laced with f-bombs and wasted, rumpled appearance, he shows us Terry’s inherent decency, particularly where his lonely niece is concerned. Their scenes together are most touching. He’s not the whole show, though, as the others are equally accomplished.

The play – a hit at London’s Bush Theatre in 2009 by up-and-coming writer Nick Payne – is one of those dysfunctional family dramas that we’ve seen often enough. Critics praised it for its quirky humor, but here, under Michael Longhurst‘s direction, a tone more somber than even mordantly comedic predominates.

That quality is underscored by Beowulf Boritt’s water drenched setting – pouring rain at times, overflowing water from a bathtub during a climactic scene, and from the trough that catches the water from the flies – and ramshackle furniture roughly tossed aside piece by piece by the cast after each scene. The water and furniture rather obviously mirror the symbolism of the play: George’s fretful planetary concerns and the family’s emotional flotsam and jetsam.

Payne writes good naturalistic dialogue…but even at 95 minutes or so, I found the proceedings a bit tedious, while admiring the committed performances, and Gyllenhaal’s auspicious stateside debut.

(Laura Pels Theater, 111 West 46th Street; (212) 719-1300 or roundabouttheatre.org; through Nov. 25)

Chaplin (Ethel Barrymore Theatre)

By Harry Forbes

In this absorbing musical drama – with its superior book by Thomas Meehan and composer Christopher Curtis – star Rob McClure gives an incredible, multi-faceted performance as silent film pioneer Charlie Chaplin, one that, even this early in the season, may be the one to beat come awards time.

Christiane Noll is his mother Hannah who had a mental breakdown when Chaplin was still a child, resulting in abandonment issues that – as Meehan and Curtis’ book would have it -- haunted him all his life, permeating his films. Noll’s recent “Closer Than Ever” co-star at York, Jenn Colella, shares the stage with her again, this time as treacherous gossip columnist Hedda Hopper who sets out to destroy Chaplin, first by tarring him with the Red brush, and then with a trumped up paternity suit charge.

Jim Borstelmann as his production manager Alf Reeves, Erin Mackey as his young fourth wife Oona O’Neill, Michael McCormick as director Mack Sennett and a couple of other roles, Zachary Unger as both the Young Charlie and child star Jackie Coogan, and Wayne Alan Wilcox as his brother Sydney Chaplin are all solid.

Curtis’ songs are not particularly memorable on first hearing, but are never less than pleasant, and register as a nice throwback to the sort of score one might have heard in London's West End in the late 1950s or early 1960s. They rarely impede – and sometimes actually enhance -- the generally serious dramatic elements.

Warren Carlyle’s direction and choreography are quite stylish – including a ballet of Chaplin look-a-likes which concludes the first act -- and support, like all the production elements, the interestingly stylized structure.

Beowulf Boritt’s black and white scenic design and the complementary costumes by Amy Clark and the late Martin Pakledinaz, Jon Driscoll’s projections, and Ken Billington’s dramatic lighting including, at one point, criss-crossing spotlights, work in harmony to present a series of striking visuals.

I appreciated Scott Lehrer and Drew Levy’s muted sound design, in this age of over-amplification. Music Director Bryan Perri leads his forces with sensitivity.

(The Barrymore Theatre, 243 West 47th St., www.telecharge.com or 212-239-6200)

Into the Woods (The Public Theater)

By Harry Forbes

Donna Murphy adds another memorable feather to her Sondheim cap with her dynamic portrayal of the Witch in Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine’s “Into the Woods” ideally set in the sylvan setting of Central Park, as was the Public’s last woodsy offering, “As You Like It.”

This production, directed by Timothy Sheader (with co-direction by Liam Steel) and designed by John Lee Beatty and Soutra Gilmour, hails from Regent’s Park in London, the first such import, but with an American cast. And it’s a talented one, to be sure.

There’s film star Amy Adams as the Baker’s Wife, Denis O’Hare as the Baker, Chip Zien (the original Baker) as the Mysterious Man, Jessie Mueller, late of “On a Clear Day,” as Cinderella, and Ivan Hernandez as the Wolf and Cinderella’s Prince.

All of them have their moments, though it’s Murphy’s assumption of the role that sets this production apart. She’s in strong voice throughout, and uses it to powerful effect throughout from her opening rap song to “Children Will Listen.” Adams is another plus, handling her songs well, though her tall wig is distracting.

The setting and costumes (by Emily Rebholz) are not always in the conventional fairy tale mode. Cinderella and the Princes are traditionally outfitted, but much of the rest is contemporary with Little Red Riding Hood, for instance, wearing a red biker helmet, John Lee Beatty and Soutra Gilmour‘s set, decked out with stairs and platforms, suggests a Disney or Universal theme park exhibit, as the observant young lady next to me noted to her friend as soon as they took their seats.

There’s no denying Jack’s beanstalk and the giant (voiced by Glenn Close) are cleverly done, but the overall physical look undermines the magic. And the staging underscores perhaps a bit too heavily Sondheim and Lapine’s themes of life, death, loneliness, loss, and so on. Lapine’s original staging, and its variants in London and on tour, as well as the last Broadway revival (also directed by Lapine) with Vanessa Williams in all had more consistently strong casts, and were more persuasive overall.

In Sheader‘s concept, the story is told, not by the usual adult narrator (like John McMartin who did the last Broadway revival), but by a child who’s run away from home, and conjures up these characters as he’s working out his own issues. It’s not a bad idea, and Noah Radcliffe (alternating with Jack Broderick) played him competently, but the conceit feels more than a little forced.

For all that’s quirky about this production, it’s still an enjoyable, crowd-pleasing show, and, of course, the price is more than right.

(The Delacorte, Central Park, free tickets distributed on the day of the show, and through a Virtual Ticketing lottery, www.shakespeareinthepark.org; through September 1)