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.