Jerusalem

Can we just say that Mark Rylance is rocking the very foundations of the Music Box theater these days? Mr. Rylance plays an essentially unlikeable character. He makes no apologies for that. There is nothing in the script that is meant to endear him to us. Doesn't matter. I can pretty well assure you that when Rooster (Mr. Rylance) lets loose his ire and resentment, when he reaches into his very soul for past-due retribution--the power of his performance can fracture your sense of well-being and put you in awe of this majestic actor.

What can I say? That he actually gave a performance that rivals this one only a few months ago? How could I say that; that would be ridiculous. Except that he did. The opening 25 minute monologue of La Bete, in rhyming verse mind you, was Mr. Rylance in a bravura turn which provoked a prolonged ovation every night. I for one went back three times in one week. I could not take my eyes or my wonder off the incredible Mr. Rylance.

Hey, I did not love Jerusalem, the play, as much as some have. Who cares though? When you have this kind of sheer acting power in the central role, it reminds you of Eleonora Duse, who left her audiences in stunned reverence at the power of her performance--and she only performed in Italian!

The Normal Heart

I wasn't sure if Larry Kramer's iconic play would make the leap through time. I was worried that it would feel time-bound, less urgent therefore less deep-ranging.

I am glad to report that my worries were completely unwarranted. This revival is a smash. I haven't left the theater wiping the tears from the entire side of my face in a very long time. Don't get me wrong--I'm a crier. I am susceptible indeed to heart-rending moments on stage. Susceptible? I long for them. It just usually takes the form of a welling up, an errant tear escaping the eye.

Not this time. When the final curtain fell, it seemed to me like we, fellow members of the audience, had been through primal therapy together and no one wanted to break the spell of sacred silence (besides, we were busy cleaning our faces for the world out on 45th Street).

This production fairly bristles with powerful emotional moments. What a treat to see Joe Mantello on the other side of the boards again. No need to herald his directorial accomplishments: artistically and commercially, his is a phenomenal success. But that acting: the antic Jewish urgency, the beating heart within the character--let's hope Mr. Mantello treats us again soon to his inimitable acting.

That said, the power speech of the play, and a soaring performance, belongs to Ellen Barkin as the irate, irascible doctor who was the main early treater of the Aids epidemic. In her wheelchair but without the vaguest hint of self-pity she takes center stage and gives a speech that overwhelms you. In lesser hands it could have gone awry, believe me. But Ms. Barkin is back in her rightly praiseworthy domain. We all know about her recent divorce, about the $30 million she got for the jewelry at auction. Ok. What we didn't know was how well her talent would fare after the crucible of money. Her performance here lays waste to any lingering doubts about her acting chops, that's for sure.

Really, the whole cast is pitch perfect. I don't know how they shared the duties, but the collaborative direction of Joel Grey and George C. Wolfe guides this revival with crisp focus and emotional resonance. We all know what is going to happen. It just all seems so right now in these deft hands. Bravo.

All I can say is wow--get thee to the Golden Theater before this limited run passes you by. Just go, you will be glad you did.

How to Succeed

It’s time to put our welcome hats on. There is a new star arrived in the firmament.

Daniel Radcliffe is killing them in How to Succeed! He is turning in the kind of performance you go to the musical theater for. I’m not sure you will easily believe how good this kid is at musical comedy. He dances! He sings!

What? Didn’t he spend his teens becoming like the most famous teenager on the planet, earning a couple hundred million in the offing? Isn’t he supposed to be in rehab by now? Hanging out in Mustique with Jagger and Bowie at the very least? But, no.

This 21 year old, instead, for the heck of it, decides to go for utter mastery of another art form. I know. It’s hard to believe. I can hear the doubters already. Know there’ll be haters. Don’t do it though. Go see him instead.

I promise you will get the thing. You know, the thrilly-tingly thing? The kind you got when you first saw “One” in A Chorus Line? You’ll get it from “Brotherhood of Man,” the eleven o’clock number. This is the best production number I’ve seen on Broadway in 20 years. It’s a-fucking-mazing. I would pay the whole ticket price just to see it again. In fact, I can’t believe it will somehow go on again tomorrow night without me.

Mr. Radcliffe is ably supported, the score sung with the deftest of voice. John Laroquette is, as always, endearing and charming and precise. Christopher J. Hanke shines as the dastardly nemesis, and Rose Hemingway has the cool, clear voice of a seeker of wisdom and truth as Rosemary. Derek McLane’s sets and Catherine Zuber’s costumes are both pitch-perfect.

But this production starts and finishes with Mr. Radcliffes' performance and Rob Ashford’s spot-on directing and exuberant choreography. Ashford doesn’t miss a single trick in this soaring production. He and Mr. Radcliffe just give the damn thing flight!

Look, I’m with you. I find it really sort of incredible. I have never been the biggest fan of How to Succeed. I saw the revival with Mathew Broderick, and I saw the original with Robert Morse--and they were fine. But I never came out feeling as I did here: with that irresistible rising up thing in my chest, carried into the street, not sure if the show would continue there. God, I love that.

At the curtain call, everyone is standing before Daniel Radcliffe comes out for his bow--Mr. Laroquette turns, bowing some and, throwing back both arms in utter welcome to the musical stage, our new star. The ovation floods the house, chills go up your spine. I was at two moments like that in the same week—the beyond belief cheering for the new iPad2, and Daniel Radcliffe’s curtain call at How to Succeed.

I’m telling you, it was like being there at the start of something big.

Other Desert Cities

I guess the wait is over: Jon Robin Baitz has come out of his slump. Way out. When was the last really great Robbie Baitz play? Some insist it was the widely hailed, short-listed for the Pulitzer, A Fair Country, but I was one who thought Mizlansky/Zilinsky was a fine effort.

Either way, it's been at least ten years. It's true, he wrote for The West Wing, he is executive producer of his own show--he's a big success on that other coast.

But I have to imagine that a playwright wants to write plays. I certainly have to imagine that a playwright of Baitz's stature must long to write a play that resonates deeply, that hits the boards running. Well, make it over to The Mitzi Newhouse, cause JRB has done just that.

Other Desert Cities is the kind of play you know you're going to like just from looking at the set (and this is no mere set--it is a set that evokes the perfect mood long before you know what that mood exactly is: thanks again to John Lee Beatty). I now count it in the great pantheon of finely observed, let's-get-this-shit-said-already, family dramas. The Sisters Rozenzweig, Three Tall Women, How I Learned to Drive, August: Osage County...

Really. The thing takes off from the first beats. The characters do not hold back: everything is risked. The knowingness of being in this family does not give rise to caution. No. This time, at least, they are going to be heard! And we hear them. In every finely-honed cut, every laser-like jab. And here's the thing: we root for them all. Even Stockard Channing's vainglorious semi-monster of a mother. We root.

And this is a consummate ensemble. Stockard Channing; Stacy Keach as the impossibly retreating father; Thomas Sadowski (so memorable in reasons to be pretty, even better here) as the successful brother on the verge of something--perhaps liberation, maybe a nervous breakdown; Linda Lavin as the booze-soaked sister in residence, and the marvelous Elizabeth Marvel. Marvel is putting on quite a show. I won't soon forget, as it registered on her face: the look of deepest hurt, turned at once to regret, despair, and shimmering with rage--it was a thing to behold.

Hey, let me not forget to say how beautifully, and with such deft hand this production is directed. Joe Mantello, Baitz's former life partner, and frequent collaborator, brings a complete vision of where the play is going and how he wants to get there. Even the curtain call has the artful precision of a master of the craft.

When a friend of mine, hearing my review, asked if I thought it could make the move to Broadway, I told him yes. I hope it does. That is where this play belongs, and this is where we welcome Jon Robin Baitz back, into the firmament.