Theatre in Review: Constellations (Manhattan Theatre Club/Samuel J. Friedman Theatre)

	Ruth Wilson. Photo: Joan Marcus

If John Lennon were alive today, would he rename one of his songs, "Across the Multiverse"? Then again, if you subscribe to the central concept of Constellations, Lennon is still alive, somewhere, somehow. As Marianne, a physicist and the female half of Nick Payne's two-hander, notes, "In the Quantum Multiverse, every choice, every decision you've ever and never made exists in an unimaginably vast ensemble of parallel universes....everything you've ever done and never done." It's a mind-boggling proposition: Think of all your choices, made over decades, and the millions of outcomes they could spawn. It's like an endless series of mirror images, stretching into infinity.

This is an undeniably fascinating idea, if not an entirely novel one. David Ives handled it in similar, if notably more light-hearted, fashion in his collection of comic sketches All in the Timing, and Kate Atkinson provided a multitude of alternative family histories in the fiendishly clever novel Life After Life. Onstage, at Manhattan Theatre Club, it produces a surprisingly conventional romantic drama that is given an intellectual veneer, thanks to a little scientific shoptalk.

Payne throws Marianne together with Roland, a beekeeper, at a barbecue and immediately starts sorting out the possibilities. The opening scenes of Constellations are the funniest, as Marianne's attempts at making conversation are met with a litany of rebuffs until Roland starts showing some interest, at which point she begins retreating. Later, when they repair to Marianne's apartment, a battery of negotiations ensues on the topic of whether Roland should spend the night -- or if he wants to spend the night, or if he should spend it on the couch and not in Marianne's bed.

Such a theatrical concept relies heavily -- almost cruelly -- on its cast, and here Constellations has gotten lucky with Jake Gyllenhaal and Ruth Wilson, who share a palpable chemistry and an unfailing ability to root out the tiny emotional variations that distinguish one potential encounter from another. One minute she is the sexual aggressor; the next she is throwing him out, for reasons she can't really explain. Later, he wanders in, slightly drunk and ready to confess to an act of infidelity; next, he is the injured party, barely able to look her in the eye while asking how soon he must vacate their home. The virtuosity of these two fine actors is beyond discussion; what's especially notable is the sensitivity with which they play together, catching each new mood on the fly and running with it. This is especially so as the atmosphere darkens and Marianne and Roland are forced to make wrenching choices not to be discussed here.

Constellations amuses and touches one's emotions, but it remains a work of certain charm and uncertain depth. Even as one admires the plastic quality of the performances, it becomes apparent that these endless variations don't really yield anything much in the way of insights. Watching Payne constantly reshuffle the deck, laying three or more variations on each scene, grows a little wearying. In scene after scene, Roland breaks up with Marianne, or she breaks up with him, or they stay together. The circumstances change; the results do not. It's particularly odd that, in trying to illustrate the idea of a universe governed by endless possibilities, Constellations always arrives at the same tear-jerking climax.

Chances are that many will be more than satisfied with the opportunity to spend a brief evening with two charismatic stars who, under the confident, light-fingered direction of Michael Longhurst, go through their paces with exceptional expertise. (And when I say "brief," I mean barely over an hour; if time is indeed an arrow, in Constellations it moves at warp speed.) Gyllenhaal is equally plausible when Roland is tongue-tied by shyness, naughtily confessing that physics makes him randy, or furiously giving Marianne the back of his hand. Wilson's Marianne can be charmingly forward, more than a little vulgar, cuttingly dismissive, and, when faced with terrible news that cannot be made better, a lone, stoic presence, ravaged by grief.

The action unfolds on a set, designed by Tom Scutt, that resembles the scene of an extremely sinister children's birthday party -- a shiny raised black deck over which hovers a gaggle of white balloons, many of which can be illuminated in muted colors. There is a glancing allusion to balloons in the script, but it hardly seems enough on which to hang an entire production design. Then again, given the lack of specifics in the script, Scutt had remarkably little to work with. In any case, the set is lit with expressive and carefully tended bursts of white sidelight by Lee Curran. Scutt dresses the actors sensibly, and David McSeveney's sound design, which exists largely to reinforce Simon Slater's score, is a solid achievement.

Stephen Sondheim once wrote a song called "Multitudes of Amys." Constellations gives us multitudes of Mariannes and Rolands, and, interestingly, the sheer number of alternatives doesn't necessarily reduce our interest in them or the consequences of their affair. This is a work with considerable surface glitter, which may well distract one from the lack of substance underneath.--David Barbour