WALKING down 42nd Street after “The Philanthropist,” I ran into a Times Square fix ture — the guy who dresses as the Dark Knight. I had to summon all my willpower not to yell, “Batman, quick! There’s a disaster down the block!”
It’s baffling to see marquee names like playwright Christopher Hampton (who just translated Yasmina Reza’s “God of Carnage”), director David Grindley (“The American Plan”) and Matthew Broderick (“Inspector Gadget”) land with such a resounding thud. And yet here we are, scratching our heads in bored disbelief.
To begin with, the work itself doesn’t amount to much. “I always think the beginning and the end are the most difficult parts of a play to handle,” English lecturer Donald (Steven Weber) tells an aspiring writer early on. Based on this effort, the middle is pretty tricky, too.
Back in 1970, the 24-year-old playwright set out to write an answer to Moliére’s 1666 masterpiece, “The Misanthrope.” Whereas the prickly title character in the older play is repelled by the hypocrisy of conventional manners, Hampton’s lead — a word-loving lecturer named Philip (Broderick) — is a kind, trusting man who takes everything and everybody literally.
Other variations will pique the interest of those familiar with Moliére. Smart, decisive Celia (the wonderful Anna Madeley), for instance, is the modern antithesis of Céliméne, the vacant social butterfly who breaks the misanthrope’s heart.
This little game occupies approximately five minutes of our attention, leaving two hours during which the mind is free to ponder some of the metaphysical questions the production raises: Why would the gorgeous Celia be attracted to a frumpy dullard like Philip? Why does Broderick always speak in a monotone? Why am I missing “Grey’s Anatomy” for this?
The first fundamental problem is Tim Shortall’s preposterously oversize set. The actors look lost in it, and Grindley makes matters worse by keeping them huddled on and around a couch plopped at the center. About half of the first act is dedicated to the most boring dinner party ever held in the British Isles, and the cast sits, yakking, for the entire duration. Did Grindley direct this by phone from London?
The scene is typical of the crushingly slow pace that smothers the play. Were it performed at a faster clip, Hampton’s occasional witticisms would at least hit harder.
The third and most lethal issue is Broderick. By now, it should be clear to all that he needs a foil: He’s never as good as when he plays the straight man, whether it’s opposite Reese Witherspoon in “Election” or Nathan Lane in “The Producers.”
Here, in the tricky part of someone compared to “a pudding, wobbling gently,” he flounders. His character’s gentleness should be appealing, at least occasionally, but Broderick is deeply irritating, and you can’t wait for him to get off the stage. That Philip is so unlikable may be the show’s most effective joke — he’s made misanthropes of us all.
elisabeth.vincentelli @nypost.com
THE PHILANTHROPIST American Airlines Theatre, 227 W. 42nd St.; 212-719-1300.