The World's Oldest (and Dullest) Profession

Perhaps The Roundabout Theatre Company should consider being a curator, rather than a producer. The best shows of its recent seasons have been those that the company has had no hand in creating, most notably Brief Encounter. Because whenever it gets its hands on a property, the results are akin to the current production of George Bernard Shaw’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession, a play about the face-off between a professional whore and her independent daughter.

We know we’re in trouble from the moment the curtain rises, revealing Scott Pask’s bland, “Uh-oh, I have to fill the entire stage?” set. Despite four scene changes, Pask’s work never rises beyond serviceable. The same cannot be said for the bulk of the performances, which linger somewhere above abysmal.

The main question hovering over the show is how can a play about the madam of a chain of brothels be so stultifying? Blame Doug Hughes’ direction and a motley crew of actors, all of whom seem to have been teleported in from different plays. Adam Driver, so good in a recent string of Off-Broadway plays, feels like an F. Scott Fitzgerald refugee in the role of a ne’er-do-well neighbor, in love with Mrs. Warren’s daughter, Vivie. Edward Hibbert is unbearable as Mrs. Warren’s platonic friend Praed; he and Hughes have taken Shaw’s subtext and turned the character into a flamboyant, Oscar Wilde creation. Of the supporting cast, only Mark Harelik, as an oily businessman, escapes unscathed. Which leaves us with leads Sally Hawkins and Cherry Jones, whose return to the Broadway stage after a four-year absence has been eagerly awaited.

First, let us just say that Hawkins is, perhaps, not an ideal choice for the role. In fact, it’s hard to believe that she’s ever acted before (let alone gave the indelible performance she gave in the film Happy-Go-Lucky). Delivering her lines at top volume in a shrill, pinched voice with atrocious diction, Hawkins feels like a robot whose volume has been cranked to 10. The only moment she came alive on stage the night I attended was in the second act, when her match failed to light her cigarette and she then choked on the smoke after a second try. Flustered, Hawkins momentarily interrupted her automaton performance to actually listen to Driver in their scene together. Alas, she recovered all too.

Jones, meanwhile, should have listened to the instincts that she claims originally made her leery of taking on the role. Rolling across the stage like a Cockney Mae West (though her slippery dialect often turns her into an Irish Mae West), Jones only sometimes provides the flash of theatrical fire that has become synonymous with her name. But there’s only so much believable acting one can do against a vacuum like the one Hawkins is providing.

Mrs. Warren’s Profession, Through Nov. 21, American Airlines Theatre, 227 W. 42nd St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 212-719-1300; $67–$117.