I'm not the world's biggest Harold Pinter fan, which is something I should share straight off. Some playwrights are huge international successes, while a particular critic scratches his head and wonders why. Pinter is that one for me, I'm afraid. His language style is sometimes so opaque, it can drive even an incredibly patient theatergoer up a wall, not because it's incoherent or indecipherable, but because his words are sometimes so superfluous. One look or carefully timed use of body language can often illustrate what it takes pages of text for him to say, yet to many, he's a literary genius. Which brings me to the Roundabout's new revival of Betrayal on Broadway.
I had such high hopes for the piece, and here's why: it stars Juliette Binoche (Oscar-winner for "The English Patient"), Liev Schreiber, one of the more gifted recent young actors; and John Slattery, a great supporting player on various TV shows and films. Also, Betrayal is directed by David Leveaux, who created the indelible revival of Tom Stoppard's The Real Thing last season and made it feel like brand-new to us all, beautifully guiding the actors to career-making performances. Alas, it seems too judicious to hope lightning will strike twice, and sadly in the case of this dull, passionless exercise, it barely registers a Zippo's flame.
Leveaux, more than anyone, seemed able to update Pinter to make it palatable even to an admitted non-Pinterite. However, despite a technically impressive effort (David Weiner's lighting design is especially fetching), this tale of a doomed love affair between two married people, Emma (Binoche) and Jerry (Schreiber), and the husband caught in the midst (Slattery), is utterly aloof and lacks the requisite fire such a cerebral dissection of lost love needs. The story is told in flashback, beginning with an awkward meeting between Emma and Jerry and leading backward to their first tryst. Yet this device adds nothing in this production. In fact, the nine scenes could have been assembled any which way, and the end result would be just as starched.
Every scene has a slow, deliberate pace, with the principal actors all drawing out their syllables and looking, you know, really focused and dramatic.
Schreiber and Binoche, two wonderful actors, are lost at sea. They have no chemistry with one another, and unlike their vibrant screen personas, they are flat here, which is not the ideal choice for a play representing a torrid affair. Only Slattery finds the right notes, with his misplaced cocky bravado at least giving us a few traits to hold on to.
Even at a very brief ninety minutes, the play feels like an eternity, mostly because it's very hard to find a rooting interest in people that don't seem worth the effort. Betrayal is one of those shows that dares you to try to "get" it, and even if you're pretty sure you do (I'd like to think I do), it seems like a negative reaction is somehow wrong, because after all, it's "art." There's a stuffy priggishness about it that some may appreciate because of its seriousness, but those looking for something tangible to take with them as they leave the American Airlines Theater (which by the way, seems far too big a space for a show this intimate) may find only their Stagebills will do the trick.
