I'm going to go on record early. The Tony for Best Actor in a Play goes to Al Pacino.
I think we can just give it to him now. His portrayal of Shylock is not only the best I've ever seen--it is one of the finest performances I have ever seen on the boards. Period.
That means I am ranking it up there, way up there, with Janet McTeer's Norah in A Doll's House, with Denzel Washington in the recent revival of Fences, Brian Dennehy in Death of a Salesman, Zero Mostel in Fiddler on the Roof, Jason Robards in Long Days' Journey into Night. That's what I'm doing.
Pacino gets this so right it's breathtaking. The production is near flawless, the supporting cast as fluid as could be hope, the sets a magical erector kit of moving steel. But it is Pacino's Shylock that is the spellbinding center of this near-perfect production.
To marvel at his posture, to watch him wear his ancient feelings on the sleeve of his Jewish prayer clothes, to behold the essence of his Jewish heritage conveyed in one shrug--the kind of magic you catch on the stage only once in a rare while. "I want my bond," he shouts, refusing even triple the original debt in lieu of his “pound of flesh closest to the heart.” "I want my bond," with the plaintive cry of desperate revenge.
How often do you get to watch a master at the peak of his powers? How often do you have a chance to hang onto his coattails as he takes you flying with him above the stage? Not very often.
Lily Rabe is turning in a Portia with gusto and David Harbour's Bassanio, a warm chocolate cake of a guy. They're just right. Daniel Sullivan's deft directorial hand is nowhere as well-suited, nor as well-used as it is here.
But, hey, go see Pacino. You will regret it when we are discussing the greatest performances ever some years from now if you don't. It is happening right now at the Broadhurst theater--in what may be the high-water mark for Shakespearean productions on Broadway. It is here for a brief, all too brief, 78 performances--still, let us be thankful.
Ron Gallen
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