Theatre in Review: Far From Heaven (Playwrights Horizons)

	Stephen Pasquale and Kelli O'Hara. Photo: Joan Marcus

Each era gets the stars it requires, and to my mind Kelli O'Hara represents the best of what today's musical theatre has to offer. It goes without saying that she is gifted with a big, creamy voice that wrings every available bit of beauty out of a song. (While we're at it, let's add a hurrah for her impeccable diction.) She is also a remarkably subtle actress; in Far From Heaven, as a suburban housewife of the 1950s who always insists that everything is fine, even when her seemingly perfect life is visibly crumbling, O'Hara is quietly heartbreaking. Faced with a warning sign -- a husband mysteriously arrested for loitering, a cocktail party that swiftly turns sour, a friend who suddenly turns her back on her -- her face is transformed into a picture of bewilderment, her eyes radiating anxiety as they seek to pinpoint the source of the malice that is inexplicably poisoning her flawless existence. Each time it is swept away with a smile and a chuckle, neither of which fully masks the fear that is growing inside her.

And for good reason: O'Hara's Cathy Whitaker dwells in a domestic Eden that is really a fool's paradise. She seems to have it all: a lovely home, two children, a business executive husband, a circle of like-minded female friends. But even as she is singing about the joys of autumn in Connecticut ("the way October turns New England to a symphony of color"), storms are brewing that will leave her isolated and spiritually homeless. Frank, her husband, is a closeted homosexual whose liquor-fuelled escapades are becoming increasingly obvious. Cathy, who has never given a moment's thought to such matters, clings pathetically to the hope that Frank can be "cured" by a psychiatrist; as her marriage falls apart, she finds herself increasingly drawn to Raymond, the black gardener, who is willing to lend an ear, and a whole lot more, if he gets the chance. But this is 1957, and even in Connecticut such a relationship is taboo, and soon Cathy is the target of malicious gossip.

This tangle of sexual and racial tensions promises plenty of drama on which Far From Heaven eventually delivers, although it takes its time getting there. The issue here is the source material; if anything, Far From Heaven is too faithful an adaptation. Todd Haynes' film of the same name is a tribute to the German director Douglas Sirk, who thrived in Hollywood in the 1950s. Popularly regarded as a solid craftsman who specialized in so-called women's pictures starring the likes of Jane Wyman and Lana Turner, Sirk specialized in creating glossy, glassy surfaces disturbed by shocks of brazen melodrama that often touch on issues -- sex, race, and class -- that nice people of the era preferred not to talk about. The result is often laughable and gripping at the same time, and what audiences of the era apparently didn't notice was that Sirk was in on the joke. Seen today, his films -- All That Heaven Allows, Written on the Wind, Imitation of Life -- are riotously campy, yet full of penetrating observations; they represent an outsider's scathing view of America at the height of its stifling and insular middle-class prosperity.

Haynes took a similar approach in Far From Heaven, although the film lacks the slashing irony of Sirk's films; his camera glides through the Whitaker home, contrasting its magazine-ready perfection with his characters' unappeased longings. It's a profoundly cinematic approach and Richard Greenberg's libretto, which closely tracks Haynes' screenplay, drags in the early sequences as it dawdles over domestic matters. Scott Frankel, the composer, and Michael Korie, the lyricist, have little to offer at first, providing mostly extended recitative, aside from the lovely opening number, "Autumn in Connecticut." The early scenes depicting Frank's troubles have an interestingly acid bebop kick to them, but they are too brief to make much of an impression.

The contributions of these talented collaborators finally come together near the end of the first act in a number called "Miro." Cathy encounters Raymond at an exhibition of modern art -- there's a nice moment when, covering up her surprise at seeing a black man at such an event, she assures him that she isn't prejudiced in the least -- and, as they discuss the paintings, we see a bond form between them. (Raymond is a lonely widower, and Cathy has surely never discussed modern art with Frank.) In Michael Greif's canny staging, neither is aware that they are being watched by everyone in the room. This sequence is followed by "The Only One," a trenchant number in which each of them quizzes the other about their lives. Cathy, wondering naively what it is like to be a permanent member of a minority, gets a fast lesson from Raymond, who takes her to a restaurant patronized by blacks, where her very appearance attracts waves of hostility. Far From Heaven is meticulous in noting that prejudice can cut both ways.

Once it becomes clear that Cathy and Raymond are attracted to each other, the show begins to exert a real claim on our hearts; following Haynes' lead, Greenberg nearly deploys the overlapping scandals with Frank and Raymond to isolate Cathy from the rest of her world. Frank's ultimate confession, "I Never Knew," is moving both in its depiction of his anguish and the devastating blow it deals to Cathy's sense of herself. Equally touching is "Tuesdays, Thursdays," in which a phone conversation between the separated couple leads Cathy to finally lay bare her stored-up sorrows. The heart-rending "A Picture in Your Mind" shows Cathy and Raymond facing up to the fact that no world exists where they can be together. Throughout the show, Frankel's music is more complex and infused with melancholy than in his previous scores; at times, it has an emotional sweep that reminds one of the work of Adam Guettel. As always, Korie's lyrics are technically accomplished and usually mordant.

O'Hara is supported by an array of first-rate talents. As in the film, Frank is less a character than a collection of urges, but Steven Pasquale does everything possible to humanize him. Isaiah Johnson offers what may be a breakout performance as Raymond, whose loneliness drives him to impulsively pursue Cathy; he is especially good near the end when he must regretfully cast her aside. There's also fine work from Nancy Anderson as Cathy's best friend (up to a point), Quincy Tyler Bernstine as Cathy's watchful housemaid, Alma Cuervo as the town tattler, and Mary Stout as a social reporter who is careful to note in her profile of Cathy that she is "kind to Negroes."

Allen Moyer's set is a kind of black box featuring a pair of movable stair units; the upstage wall is wrought in a Mondrian pattern, which allows Peter Nigrini, the projection designer, to create intriguingly fragmented scene-setting images of living rooms, bars, streets, and other locations. This scheme allows for rapid scenic transitions -- which is crucial in a show of this nature -- but it also has a surprisingly noirish look about it. (After all, the crimes in Far from Heaven are strictly domestic.) In any case, Kenneth Posner's lighting skillfully carves the actors out of this setting, creating pleasingly dimensional looks with sidelight. Catherine Zuber's costumes -- especially Cathy's New Look dresses and Frank's boxy suits -- are beautiful period creations. Nevin Steinberg's unfailingly sensitive sound design seamlessly weds the voices to the rather large (for Off Broadway) pit band.

Even if one wonders if the show's creators might have done more to give Far From Heaven a theatrical identity of its own, it serves as a deluxe vehicle for O'Hara, who handles a marathon role with remarkable delicacy and insight. And, of course, her voice seduces with every perfectly wrought note. Even in her final appearance, when Cathy, stripped of nearly everything that once made her life matter, admits that she was living in a dream -- a moment of both loss and, oddly, triumph -- she is nothing less than ravishing. There is more to Far From Heaven than Kelli O'Hara, but she alone is more than enough to justify a visit.--David Barbour