Theatre in Review: The Illusion (Signature Theatre)

	Merritt Wever. Photo: Joan Marcus

A great deal of effort has been expended -- successfully so -- to create an aura of magic around The Illusion, Tony Kushner's adaptation of a Pierre Corneille comic fantasy. Christine Jones' set is a box filled with tricks -- mirrors into which the faces of strangers appear, curtains that rise out of the floor and vanish upward, pianos that provide gateways to alternate universes. Taking a painterly approach and making use of the most basic, yet effective, of theatrical techniques, Jones creates a space that is in a constant state of transformation. When the action shifts to a garden where romantic trysts occur, a pair of panels flies in, adorned with watercolors of greenery practically tumbling off the canvas. Later, the stage is framed by bare branches and the stark silhouette of a leafless tree, the ideal setting for treachery and murder.

And that's not all. Susan Hilferty's costumes are a riot of rich fabrics and intricate brocades, a vividly realized vision of 17th-century chic. Everything is given an extra edge by Kevin Adams' moody, fantastical lighting --the array of colored lamps built into the ceiling constitutes an especially exotic touch -- and Bray Poor has on hand a battery of effects that range from subtle surround sounds to startlers that just may have you jumping out of your seat.

All of this is to the credit of Michael Mayer, the director, who has clearly worked long and hard with his design team to create a world that can contain Corneille's bizarre tale of reality and appearance. It's all the more remarkable then that Mayer's handling of the actors and text are so leaden. As a result, The Illusion comes across as a series of plot complications in search of a theme, an elaborate joke with a punch line so attenuated that when it arrives it hardly seems worth the trouble.

It's possible that Corneille's distinctively French work -- a weird aperitif of knockabout comedy, melancholy philosophizing, and touches of gothic horror -- simply doesn't translate well. Certainly, Kushner's language is more elaborately wrought than insightful or amusing -- one character is dismissed as being a "Medea of the linen closet" and much of the dialogue runs along the lines of such ruminations as "the art of illusion is the art of love, and the art of love is the blood-red heart of the world." Still, The Illusion is hooked to a highly theatrical concept and might have been far more effective had Mayer not made such curious casting choices.

Not everyone in the case is at sea. With his grand manner and orotund way of speaking David Margulies is ideal as Pridamant, whose search for his estranged son leads him to the cave of Alcandre, a sorceress. In the latter role, Lois Smith is an impressive sight, decked out in a high-collared gown with a plunging décolletage and sporting a upswept hairdo that Elsa Lanchester's Bride of Frankenstein might envy. But when she opens her mouth, her markedly Middle-American accent jarringly transports us from the magician's cave of wonders to a cornfield somewhere in Iowa. Smith seemingly tries to compensate for this by over-enunciating every line, an approach that quickly grows wearying.

Alcandre shows Pridamant a trio of visions of his son -- each time, his name and circumstances are different, but in each he is involved in a similar romantic quadrangle. The young actors involved -- Finn Wittrock as the son, Amanda Quaid as his out-of-reach love object, Sean Dugan as a romantic rival, and Merritt Wever as a supremely practical maid -- are all distinguished by flat, overemphatic vocal deliveries, although Weaver does get some laughs with the dry-eyed way she guides Quaid and Wittrock through their romantic intrigues. Also on hand is Peter Bartlett, as a braggart warrior whose fey mannerisms belie his heroic reputation. Bartlett is something of an acquired taste -- he has given exactly the same performance every time I've seen him -- and, in this case, he is given rather too much license to pose and preen, as is his wont. (On the other hand, Henry Stram scores nicely as Alcandre's deaf-mute servant and as a disapproving father, who, amusingly, earns Pridamant's criticism.)

Mayer also lets the action unfold at such a deliberate pace that it's easy to lose touch with the overarching story of Pridamant's search for his son. The visions themselves aren't that gripping, and, by the time their true meaning is revealed, it hardly seems worthy of the slow-moving, long-winded buildup. It certainly doesn't help that the second act appears to conclude about five times before finally reaching the fade-out. The most excitement comes from a sequence of swordplay wittily staged by Rick Sordelet.

One imagines that Kushner was drawn to Corneille's text for its exploration of the incantatory powers of storytelling and his surprisingly modern gift for mixing styles and tones. But, at least as represented here, The Illusion is overstuffed with uncompelling narratives. The magic is largely confined to the stage design; the script and characters are surprisingly prosaic.--David Barbour