I think we can just give it to him now. His portrayal of Shylock is not only the best I've ever seen--it is one of the finest performances I have ever seen on the boards. Period.
That means I am ranking it up there, way up there, with Janet McTeer's Norah in A Doll's House, with Denzel Washington in the recent revival of Fences, Brian Dennehy in Death of a Salesman, Zero Mostel in Fiddler on the Roof, Jason Robards in Long Days' Journey into Night. Oh, yeah--that's what I'm doing.
Pacino gets this so right it's breathtaking. Yes, the production is nearly flawless, his supporting cast is as fluid as anyone could hope for, and the set is a sort of magical erector kit of moving steel. But it is Pacino's Shylock that is the spellbinding center of this near-perfect production.
To marvel at his posture, to watch him wear his ancient feelings on the sleeve of his Jewish prayer clothes, to behold the essence of his Jewish heritage conveyed in one shrug--this is the kind of magic you only catch on the stage every once in a rare while. "I want my bond," he shouts, refusing even triple the original debt, "I want my bond," with the plaintive cry of desperate revenge.
How often do you get to watch a master at the peak of his powers? How often do you have a chance to hang onto his coattails as he takes you soaring above the stage? Not very often I'm afraid.
Hey Lily Rabe is turning in her Portia with gusto and David Harbour's Bassanio feels like a warm chocolate cake of a guy. They're just right. And Daniel Sullivan's deft directorial hand is nowhere as well-suited, nor as well-used as it is here.
But, hey, go see Pacino. You will regret it when we are discussing the greatest performances ever some years from now if you don't. It is happening right now at the Broadhurst theater--in what may be the high-water mark for Shakespearean productions on Broadway. It is here for a brief, all too brief, 78 performances--still, let us be thankful.
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