EDGE on the Net

To be fair, it gets better near the end. In the last section of Michael Jacobs’ mess of a play, Impressionism, at the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre, a discussion takes place over one of the paintings on the gallery wall. It’s a clever bit, as Thomas Buckle (Jeremy Irons) and Katharine Keenan (Joan Allen) are joined by newlyweds and an elderly baker (the delightful Andre De Shields) in a debate over the subtext of the artist’s work. Sadly, no such debate should exist over the rest of the play, unless it’s of the "Just how bad was it?" variety. If "Impressionism" is still playing by the time this review comes out, it will be unfortunate that many hard-working people have lost a job, but good news to those who might spend their hard-earned money on something so feeble.

In what’s easily the most mismatched pairing since Babs kissed Bush, Katharine and Thomas work at a New York art gallery -- wait, scratch that: Thomas doesn’t work there, we find out; he just shows up with coffee and tells caffeine-related stories and somehow earns a living. Hardly anyone steps inside the place, which gives the two more time to bicker (though it’s hard to tell if they are really fighting or just in grumpy moods). Naturally, this being a comedy, they are destined to fall in love, even though Allen and Irons seem about as interested in each other as we are in them.

The biggest problem with the production, in a long list of complaints, is that Irons is almost lethargic onstage, coming across as either horribly unprepared, bored with the role, or thinking a high-brow English accent can make up for everything. Since he gives almost nothing to his co-star, Allen does just the opposite, fretting and fussing and tearing-up so much she’s like a blender that keeps switching speeds. Making matters worse, "Impressionism" offers a series of flashbacks on these two characters’ lives, all of them sloppy, one of them embarrassing. (For reasons that don’t make sense, Irons, who plays Katharine’s father in one memory scene, keeps his English accent; then, later, as her lover, goes for a bad Southern Accent...although that might explain the first decision.)

Among the few people who breathe life into the gallery, and play, is Marsha Mason, as socialite Julia Davidson. The actress is quite good in her short scenes, but you can’t help but wonder why she’s on this stage as opposed to the one that occupies, say, "August: Osage County," across the street. Michael T. Weiss has a no-nothing role as (perhaps) Katharine’s boyfriend, Douglas Finch, and a few other actors are thrown in to no one’s advantage.

Scott Pask’s set is sweet and homey, with period paintings projected onstage, but Director Jack O’Brien seems to be asleep at the wheel. The man who crafted "The Coast of Utopia" and "Hairspray," among other touted productions, allows scenes to drag and cues to come in late, and shares little attention to detail (not only are the same tulips used for different days, they’re not fresh). Jacobs has no sense or interest in practicality, as paintings are sold without receipts and then schlepped off, sometimes packaged, sometimes not. I’m still trying to figure out why our two leads have long, scrim-seen entrances into the shop, while other patrons simply walk in unnoticed. While someone might call it an impression of sorts, the description only fits if you add, "and a bad one, at that."