The opening of Jack O’Brien’s production of Impressionism, starring Jeremy Irons and Joan Allen, was delayed two weeks, and many changes were reportedly made. I clearly can’t speak to what those changes were, but the finished product was worth the wait…and worth standing in the freezing cold (thanks, March) for an hour to get a free Opening Night ticket as a seat filler. Although that can be said of plays far less endearing than this.
The show is essentially understated, accentuated with bursts of life, springing from the delicious performances of the actors, and, more visibly, from the projections of well-known impressionist paintings decorating the skrim and lowered canvases between scenes. The latter, a seeming piggy-back of the Seurat-styled projections by Timothy Bird & The Knifedge Creative Network in Roundabout Theatre’s 2008 Sunday in the Park with George, prove so all-encompassing and beautiful that, true to the playwright’s aim, one does seem to sense one’s view of the world changing with each glimpse.
Michael Jacobs’ story is simple on purpose, allowing his characters sufficient wiggle-room to reach (or flail) out to one another. Some details require suspension of disbelief – for example, Katharine’s (Allen) impeccable, enviable wardrobe and stylish gallery complete with hired help paired with her consistent aversion to selling any of her merchandise. I’m sure she also lives in an apartment like Monica and Rachel’s on Friends. The costume and set designers choose, like Thomas (Irons), to take pity on this delicate creature; life is easier to handle surrounded by pleasing aesthetics. Lest Katharine get too comfortable, however, Mr. Jacobs’ script proves to be sharp enough to keep her on her toes, and to keep the laughter wafting up the aisles.
The plot’s lapses in chronology are successful in providing much-needed insight into the character’s mental states. Most critically, the audience learns of Katharine’s romantic “education”, a la that of
Irons and Allen both offer delectable turns as quirky, too-polar-opposite-not-to-be-meant-for-each-other protagonists. Ms. Allen is smart and talented enough to play emotionally dumb almost convincingly, and Mr. Irons can act the part of just boring and stubborn enough to balance her. However, it is André De Shields as Mr. Linder who steals the show. His inspired scene contains the pulsing heart of this production – what practically forces it under your skin, despite any efforts made to keep it at bay. His monologue is undoubtedly Mr. Jacobs’ dissertation on true love, and so well put that it becomes impossible to resist the desire for a happy ending, never mind how far-fetched or cliché.
Now that I’ve given everything away, you should see this show anyway. If the sheer star power (Michael T. Weiss from The Pretender—in the flesh!!) doesn’t justify the ticket purchase, the free mini-course in art history, private showing of the entire Impressionist wing of the Met, and amazingly convincing/overly optimistic outlook on love certainly do.
Frolic and scamper from your
