THEATRE CRITIC |
||||
The current West End production of Tennessee Williams' Cat On A Hot Tin Roof ( 
) certainly generates more than its fair share of theatrical heat, but
it does so in fresh and unexpected ways.
Most productions of this modern classic zero in on the title role of Maggie the Cat and give her the full va-va-voom treatment, a tradition that has been around since Elizabeth Taylor burned up the screen in the movie version. It's not that Frances O'Connor doesn't make a strongly sexual impression in the role. She certainly does. But it's a more predatory cat than one usually sees, closer to a panther in her sleek dark beauty and slashing claws. No, the temperature here gets raised by the scorching interpretations of Brick and Big Daddy, both played with larger-than-life majesty by Brendan Fraser and Ned Beatty. You remember the plot. Brick has stopped sleeping with Maggie and started hitting the bottle after the death of his college buddy Skipper. Were they more than friends? Brick denies it and Maggie spends the whole first act in a virtuoso monologue trying to wear him down. O'Connor is especially impressive here because she's not afraid to get shrill and strident as the desperation of her situation pushes her to the wall. Beatty takes over in the second act and when he and Brick finally confront each other with the truths they've been hiding, it makes for shattering theatre. Beatty strides the stage like a wounded animal, not afraid to roar with triumph or howl with pain. He's magnificent. But the true revelation is Brendan Fraser. People who come expecting to see the hunk from George Of The Jungle get their chance to ooh and aah in the opening scene as he perches decoratively in a towel, but they wind up getting a lot more than they bargained for. Throughout the long first act, he coasts on what Maggie calls "the charm of the defeated," but there is a sense of danger simmering underneath. The rest of the play reveals it. As Brick drinks and Big Daddy prods, the layers of truth emerge. He's got a beatific look as he remembers "tossing long high passes that couldn't be intercepted except by time," but when he admits why he drinks, the one word explosion "Disgust" nearly rips the roof off the theatre. He also finds a way of playing the problematic third act that allows for a kind of hope without wallowing in sentimentality. Through it all, he holds the stage with a magnetic presence — the only Brick I've ever seen who makes you believe he loved Maggie and Skipper equally, and that love is what tore him apart. Apart from the three central performances, there are points to quibble with in Anthony Page's production. The other women are caricatured beyond belief, and most of the supporting British cast can't sustain their Southern accents. There's also the least convincing offstage fireworks display in memory. But no matter. The fireworks onstage are enough. |
||||
