New York Report

King Hedley II



The Producers.

This play adds the 1980s to August Wilson’s immense project of dramatically chronicling the African-American experience of the 20th century, decade by decade. This installment feels more like an unfinished novel than a play, chock full of complicated subplots, characters we don’t know, carloads of Literary Symbolism (dreams of halos, a dead cat’s grave next to sprouting flower seeds, gray hair, dyed hair, keyrings bequeathed by Aunt Esther who lived to be 366 years old, etc., etc. And when I say "etc." I mean etc.) Brian Stokes Mitchell, coming from his Tony-winning performance in the musical comedy Kiss Me Kate, now has a shaved head and viciously scarred face, and he never never never lets us glimpse that dazzling smile. That’s because there is nothing to smile about in this grim portrait of grim legacies: children who were abandoned by parents now abandon their children who are repeating the pattern yet unto another generation. Men rob, steal, con each other and themselves, seek murderous revenge for petty affronts to their pathetic pride. There are lots of guns, knives, weapons of all sorts, including "the machete of the lion of Judea." Women suffer, abide, connive and grow desperate. It’s a story already so familiar that, without particularity, the characters and their motives become tediously generic. Wilson seems to have overplayed his signature elements: the deranged prophet next door who provides Bible quotations for every occasion, the long arias which soar to histrionic heights, characters who speak only in aphorisms as if they’re expecting to be quoted — as they will be. King’s wife, Tonya, played brilliantly by Viola Davis, is the only character who sounds human and genuine and not like somebody who talks in scripted dialogue. The impressive set of crumbling brick houses silhouetted against a night sky was designed by David Gallo. (Virginia, 245 W. 52nd St., 212-239-6200, open run.)

Madame Melville

Kind of an unsympathetic Tea and Sympathy, this coming-of-age play by Richard Nelson is about a 15-year-old boy (Macaulay Culkin) in Paris whose teacher (Joely Richardson) gives him a few lewd lessons in art and music and film, and then persuades him to stay at her apartment and seduces him. He’s so awkward and unforthcoming that you don’t know what she sees in him; we learn later, in ways the play entirely and sentimentally forgives, that it was merely out of neediness and spite, since Mme Melville had quarreled with her married lover. Culkin’s gestures are perfectly stiff and his speech perfectly stilted, blurted out in such odd rhythmic patterns that you hope it’s all intentional — an effective character portrayal, albeit annoying to listen to. And if you think his speech is odd, Richardson’s fake French accent veers from Irish to American to Garble-Gallic. (Where is Juliette Binoche now that we need her? She could have been doing this instead of ruining Pinter’s Betrayal. ) The only character who lets some breathable air into this hothouse is Mme Melville’s next-door neighbor, an American violinist named Ruth (Robin Weigert), but her stories — an abandoned baby, a failed marriage — are left hanging on the margins of the play. As directed by the playwright, the hour and a half is filled with realistic awkward silences and long pauses while people fetch things from other rooms. And finally, although the play’s premise is that it is a recollection/confession by the 50-year-old man this boy grew up to be, it seems far more adolescent than nostalgic. (Promenade, Broadway at 76th Street, 212-239-6200.)

The Producers

I’m still laughing. Mel Brooks is a genius of funny — and this perfectly cast, wonderfully choreographed (Susan Stroman) and fabulously set (Robin Wagner) production simultaneously recalls and parodies The Big Broadway Musical (as the revival of Follies does, in tragic ways, one block away). The plot begins when a famous producer (the irresistible Nathan Lane) has his new show (Funny Boy: A New Musical of Hamlet) closed by the disgusted critics, and a timid accountant (Matthew Broderick talking in a hilariously sheep-like voice) suggests that they could make a fortune by intentionally producing a flop. Contrary to plan, Springtime For Hitler turns out to be a huge satirical hit and they’re in trouble again. From Ulla (Cady Huffman), the blonde Swedish bombshell, to the "hotsy-totsy Nazis," to the gay director in a silver gown with a huge tiara ("You look like the Chrysler Building") to his ferociously flitty "common-law assistant" Carmen Ghia, to the old lewd ladies whose production number has taps on their walkers instead of their shoes, to the "Fuhrer who’s causing a furor" — it’s just a total hoot. Pity the tickets are so damned expensive, since this is a show everybody who needs a laugh should see. (St. James, 246 W. 44th St., 212-239-6200.)

Hot Tip: Since this will be the last New York Report of the season, here’s an extra recommendation until we meet again: The Seagull, NY Shakespeare Festival (at the Delacorte in Central Park): An all-star Chekhov. Just listen to this cast: John Goodman, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Kevin Kline, Debra Monk, Natalie Portman, Stephen Spinella, Meryl Streep and Christopher Walken. Directed by Mike Nichols. And now for the best news: It’s FREE. (July 24-August 19, 212-539-8500.)