In 1977, long before Interview with a Vampire, Twilight, True Blood and dozens of other blood lust permutations, Frank Langella took the Broadway stage as owner of the fangs we love to hate. The production was a revival of the 1925 play, Dracula, by Hamilton Deane and John L. Balderson. “Frank Langella Gets His Teeth Into A Winning Role,” was the appreciative headline. (Judy Klemesrud, The New York Times). It was a well acted, well produced hoot, both corny and iconic (I saw it) and won the Tony Award for Best Revival. The popular film version followed.
A humorless, cheap looking, facsimile at the Little Shubert bears no resemblance to its predecessors. The chestnut of a script played effectively and entertainingly deadpan by the charismatic Langella (and cast) has been tampered with to such a degree, one imagines the producers have no confidence in the undead. A completely expendable kitchen scene has been relocated for no discernable reason other than to take us out of the parlor. Renfield is now an American student with an accent out of high school Tennessee Williams. (All the accents, which come and go, seem to be from different plays). When Dracula rises from his coffin one last time before being finally dispatched, ham would be a welcome relief.
Actors are either wooden or simply make faces, turning toward one another without communicating. Lines are tripped over. In the second act Van Helsing twice addresses Lucy by the name Mina. Timing is non-existent. The only difference between Lucy exhausted and drained and Lucy robust (after feeding) is her make-up. Hypnotic possession is indicated by one performer with the kind of ragged shimmy a cartoon animal exhibits when his tail gets caught in an electric socket. Dracula has a thing about his long black hair which appears first in a pony tail, next with the left side pulled out, then the right side pulled out and finally down free. Were there two more scenes, I fully expected to see a braid and a bun. A Boy Scout could’ve generated more heat by rubbing sticks together.
“I don’t drink—beat—wine” elicits less reaction than the sneeze of an audience member when fog rolls in. That gets laughter!
Directorially, this show is a series of ghastly choices and worse missteps. A coda, likely copied from the film Saw, implies Renfield will take over from Dracula. Clearly indicative of the taste and judgment of its modern originator this conceit is but one among dozens that help place Dracula firmly in the pantheon of unfathomable flops just to the left of Moose Murders.
In an effort to be fair and supportive of that which showed some skill, the lighting and sound design might’ve sat well in a worthier production. Of this one, all I can say, is even the bat sent a stand-in which, in shadow, appeared to be a drunken crow…on a stick.
Dracula by Hamilton Deane and John L. Balderson
Based on the novel by Bram Stoker
Starring George Hearn, Michael Altieri and Emily Bridges
The Little Shubert Theater
442 West 42nd Street
www.littleshubert.com
