Theatre in Review: Misery (Broadhurst Theatre)

	Laurie Metcalf, Bruce Willis. Photo: Joan Marcus

If you want to have the bejesus scared out of you, Laurie Metcalf is your woman. As Annie Wilkes in Misery, she is an angel both of mercy and of death, an all-devouring black hole of need. One minute, she is as fluttery as a teenager anticipating her first date; the next, she wields a sledgehammer with sinister intent. In less time than that, her fangirl gush turns to icy accusation. Keeping an eye on her won't do you any good; her violent mood swings are all the more impressive for unfolding in plain sight. A middle-aged divorcee living pretty far off the grid in Colorado, Annie gets the thrill of her life when Paul Sheldon, a best-selling romance novelist, cracks up his car near her home. A blizzard is in full swing and she is a trained nurse, so she brings him home, patches him up, and puts him on an IV drip and painkillers. As she constantly reminds Paul, even before he awakens, "I'm you're number one fan."

If you've read Stephen King's novel of the same name or if you've seen the 1990 film taken from it, you know that Annie has no intention of letting Paul go. He is the author of a series of novels about a plucky 19th-century heroine named Misery Chastain, and Annie's attachment is blood-curdling in its intensity. By her own admission, Annie's life has been one long series of crushing disappointments, and she clings to the Misery books' rose-tinted view of the past as if to a lifeline.

"I can't believe my very own hero is recovering in my own home," Annie beams, her joy eerily out of proportion to Paul's agony, fed by two broken legs and multiple contusions. In any case, Annie's dream date is about to become a nightmare for them both. She reads the draft of Paul's new novel, a contemporary work based on his own life, featuring brutal encounters laced with enough profanity for a David Mamet retrospective. Then the new Misery novel is published -- "Just to read the name Misery again," she says; "it's like a visit from my oldest, dearest friend" -- and, to Annie's horror, the heroine dies in childbirth. The animal cry of terror, followed by rage, with which Metcalf's Annie greets this development is one of Misery's most hair-raising moments.

Even in her more benign moods, Annie is enough to keep one permanently on edge, whether she is curtseying like Amanda Wingfield greeting a gentleman caller; rocking back and forth in unfettered glee in anticipation of learning Misery's latest fate; or dictating the creepiest author's inscription you've ever heard. Then there's the moment when Annie, giving Paul his meds, empties his water glass and refills it from her cleaning bucket. Or the time she forces him to burn his scandalous new novel on the barbecue grill. Or the late-night visit to Paul's bedroom, when, wielding a gun, she says there can only be one way out for them both. As for that sledgehammer, if you're familiar with the story, you know what happens; if you're not, brace yourself for the grisliest scene Broadway has seen in many a moon.

Metcalfe has always been an actress of ferocious technical gifts, and here she pulls out all the stops, creating a woman whose mercurial shifts of temperament could, at any moment, end in bloodshed. It's an operatic performance, but an honest one, and untouched by camp -- although Misery, which always had a black comic edge, has, in William Goldman's adaptation, become an entertainment that provokes laughter and gasps in equal measure: A physical struggle between Annie and Paul ends with a hypodermic in his neck and her muttering, "When are we going to develop a sense of trust?" Annie's demand that Paul write a new novel that brings Misery back from the dead forces him to concoct an outrageously false plot featuring bee stings and a premature burial. Still, Annie is so scary simply because she feels so deeply. It's hard to say which is more unsettling -- her way with a blunt instrument or the sheer, unfathomable depths of her need.

It's interesting to speculate what Misery would be like if she had an equal partner on stage. The role of Paul is fiendishly difficult, since for most of the play's running time he is confined to either a bed or wheelchair, and much of the time he strings Annie along with pleasant lies to keep her from turning violent. Returning to the stage after three decades, Bruce Willis gives a performance that is largely uninflected and lacking in energy; one never feels the desperation associated with being held captive by a madwoman, especially as time goes by and it becomes apparent that Paul's loved ones and business associates are convinced that he is dead. The star has a few moments, especially in a romantic dinner for two featuring an aborted poisoning scheme and in two tense sequences in which Paul wheels his way around Annie's house when she is out, making good use of the turntable on David Korins' marvelously detailed farmhouse set. But an element of desperation is missing; one never really believes that Paul is struggling for his life. If the director, Will Frears, has gotten superb work from Metcalf, he has been unable to sufficiently rouse Willis into achieving a similar level of emotional commitment. Much of the time, his Paul merely seems to want to take a nap. (Leon Addison Brown makes a fine contribution as the state trooper who keeps turning up at Annie's house, sniffing around suspiciously.)

Also, Goldman's otherwise solid adaption goes slack in the final stretch, with a disappointing final battle between Annie and Paul followed by a coda that fails to provide the last-minute shock that the story so very badly needs. Clearly, everyone involved must have thought that Misery, with its theme of confinement and a bed-ridden protagonist, would be ideal stage material. But when the time comes for an extended action sequence, it falls strangely flat.

In other respects, the production has been burnished by a team of top professionals. In addition to Korins' set, which shows the house's exterior and several interiors, David Weiner's lighting is especially clever at showing the passage of time by scanning moving window patterns across the set. He also partners with Darron L West, the sound designer, on a number of evocative nighttime storm effects; West also provides solid reinforcement for Michael Friedman's fairly ubiquitous musical underscoring. Ann Roth's costume designs provide Annie with ideally dowdy outfits, including the highly unflattering dress, inherited from her mother, that she wears for what she hopes will be a romantic dinner with Paul. And the makeup by Luc Verschueren -- combined, I assume, with the special effects of Gregory Meeh, make Paul's predicament look vividly real.

Even with its drawbacks, Metcalf's gloriously unhinged, but not undisciplined, performance will be enough for many theatregoers. The limited-run production has been selling out through previews, so it stands to be Broadway's next hit. And, as an unabashed lover of stage thrillers, I'm always ready for a comeback for mayhem and murder on Broadway. A play like this is a kind of game; here, however, only one person on stage is playing for keeps. -- David Barbour