Entertainment

Luminous performers brighten 1984 ‘Road’

It’s pretty clear the Roundabout company is in the theater business, because its latest Broadway show, “The Road to Mecca,” would have a hard time getting made in Hollywood.

Forget about multiplex-friendly instant gratification: This 1984 play by Athol Fugard (“Tsotsi,” “‘Master Harold’ . . . and the Boys”) unfolds slowly, dragged down by an exposition-laden first act. Even worse, from a movie mogul’s standpoint, conversations between two women take up much of the story — and they aren’t chatting about guys or kids, either.

The final blow: One of these women is waaaay north of 40. The horror!

But while “The Road to Mecca” meanders — and its intimacy is lost in the vast American Airlines Theatre — the show’s low-key approach ultimately works in its favor. Even better, we get to watch luminous stage icon Rosemary Harris duet with Tinseltown glamour-puss Carla Gugino (“Sin City”).

Harris’ Miss Helen is an eccentric artist who lives in a remote South African village. She’s not doing well, physically and mentally, and an anxious letter to Elsa Barlow (Gugino) has prompted the younger woman to drive 800 miles from Cape Town for a visit.

The old, provincial Afrikaner and the urban teacher from an English South African background don’t seem to have much in common. But against all odds, their friendship feels very real, very grounded. Both the stars and director Gordon Edelstein — who helmed an excellent “Glass Menagerie” in 2009 — succeed in suggesting the comfortable affection Elsa and Miss Helen share as they talk about life.

The drama flourishes in the second act, when local minister Marius Byleveld (Jim Dale, making a welcome return to the stage) drops by. He’s trying to persuade Miss Helen to leave her house for a retirement home, and at first he looks like a manipulative, judgmental creep. Byleveld seems particularly riled by the older woman’s outsize sculptures, her “Mecca,” which have taken up her garden — Miss Helen is based on the real-life outsider artist Helen Martins, whose Owl House is now a South African national monument.

“She did something which small minds and small souls can never forgive,” Elsa says, jumping to her friend’s defense. “She dared to be different!”

But the reverend is more complex than he seems, and Fugard endows him with the same layered depth he affords the women. There are no obvious villains and heroes here, and no easy resolutions, either.

While far from perfect — Fugard occasionally lapses into sappy melodrama; set designer Michael Yeargan’s South African shack looks more like a Santa Fe B&B — the show is a slow-burning pleasure. By the time Harris delivers Miss Helen’s final speech about her quixotic artistic quest, you may find yourself reaching for a tissue rather than your cellphone.