Theatre in Review: Candida (Gingold Theatre Group at Theatre Row)So much thought has gone into reimagining this revival of George Bernard Shaw's comedy that its meaning has seemingly slipped the company's collective mind. Director David Staller transposes the action of Candida from the London suburbs circa 1895 to Harlem in 1929, on the rationale that the leading male character, Reverend James Morrell, a popular and politically connected clergyman, can be reconfigured as a celebrity preacher along the lines of Adam Clayton Powell, Sr. or, perhaps, Father Divine. It's not an uninteresting idea, I guess, although the difference in manners (theological and otherwise) between, say, Barking and Upper Manhattan is considerable. To be sure, the changes are largely cosmetic. For example, rather than being invited to the speak at the Hoxton Freedom Group, Morell is approached by the New Amsterdam Freedom Group of Hell's Kitchen. Eugene Marchbanks, the callow young poet who is Morell's romantic rival, has dropped out of Princeton instead of Oxford. And Burgess, Morell's father-in-law, belongs not to the Freeman Founders in North Folgit but the Knickerbocker Industrialist Cavaliers Court Assembly. Lindsay Genevieve Fuori's set, depicting Morell's sitting room, is a cabinet of curiosities packed to the rafters with period items -- lamps, toys, paintings, books, busts -- rendered in an attractive green-and-maroon palette. Dustin Cross' costumes solidly locate the characters in the updated time frame; note the sensible working woman's ensemble for Proserpine Garnett, Morell's secretary. There's also an amusing bit of business when Proserpine changes channels on the radio, replacing jazz with liturgical music, only be overruled by Morrell. Whether any of this is a good idea, or basically neither here nor there -- if Shaw set a play in America in 1929, he'd have something to say about the stock market, wouldn't he? -- is something we'll have to consider another day, because, underneath the shiny new patina, Candida is very difficult to discern. Shaw planted his play of ideas -- about feminism, socialism, and the conflict between business and art -- in a conventional (for him) domestic comedy full of cunning psychological chess moves. Morell -- whose spiritual calling has, paradoxically, brought him a solid degree of material success -- is cossetted by his wife, Candida, who runs the household with unfailing cheer and efficiency. A collector of strays, she has taken under her wing Marchbanks, on the run from his wealthy family. At first, Marchbanks' obvious affection for Candida looks like puppy love, but appearances deceive: In a private moment with Morell, he charges the good reverend with exploiting Candida, adding that he intends to have her himself. What follows is a discreet battle for possession of a woman who, as it happens, intends to control her own destiny. In the best productions, such as Tony Walton's 2010 Irish Rep staging, the audience senses that Morell's marriage may in fact be endangered, largely because Candida and Marchbanks, an unlikely couple to be sure, share a spark that, left untended, could explode into something powerfully destabilizing. (Morrell, not a gambling man, pointedly leaves them alone together, taking a risk that could blow up his marriage.) By the final scene, a subtle power shift has occurred. Whatever the outcome, it is Morrell and Marchbanks who need Candida, not the other way around. Such subtle reversals are lost in Staller's production, which is staged as a bustling, fast-moving farce. Characters practically gallop in and out, barking their lines and externalizing their characters' emotions to the maximum extent. Such exertion is enervating: I know it's a fall booking, but must they appear to be in training for the New York Marathon? Indeed, all these sides of this triangle are out of joint. R. J. Foster initially captures Morrell's genial, self-satisfied manner, but when his domestic paradise is threatened, we don't see the cold trickle of fear, the sudden lurking vulnerability, that profoundly undermines his sense of self; instead, growing ever more flustered, he shouts his lines, as if sheer volume could make his problems vanish. Avery Whitted, who made a good impression in the Mint Theatre production of Chains (another pre-World-War-I British play), makes Eugene into a nervous wreck in need of an analyst, pronto. More than once, he flings himself to the ground, pushing his voice into his upper register to signal his abject misery. If Candida sees anything in him, she must be delusional. Candida is the trickiest of roles, requiring an actress who can communicate innate magnetism and intelligence along with a hint of mystery. Katherine Cornell owned the role for decades but, after her, Celeste Holm, Joanne Woodward, and Mary Steenburgen all came to grief with it; anyone tackling the part should proceed with extreme caution. Avanthika Srinivasan is surprisingly artificial, loud, and harsh of voice, exhibiting little connection to either man. David Ryan Smith, a fine Shakespearean comedian, turns Burgess into something like the wacky, drop-in neighbor from a TV sitcom. He also gives the character, a greedy manufacturer, an inappropriately fey quality. According to the script, Burgess cozies up to Marchbanks in hopes of making important business connections; here, he gazes at the young man with something other than financial interest. Peter Romano and Amber Reauchean Williams start out well as Lexi, Morell's associate, and Proserpine, but they give in to the general hysteria. This production has been billed as "the rom-com that started it all," but both the rom and the com have been scanted in favor of frantic pacing and overemoting. Under the circumstances, it's not at all clear what the change of setting and time frame add or subtract to Shaw's original text, because no one onstage seems to have a grasp of the play's emotional substructure, its complicated web of need and independence. Anyway, Jamie Roderick's pleasantly incandescent lighting scheme and Michael Costagliola's sound design are solid contributions. The cast is full of proficient, likable performers whom one hopes to see again. And Staller, our resident Shavian expert, and an often very fine director, is certain to deliver a better attraction the next time. There's nothing wrong with high-concept Shaw if the play's fundamentals are addressed; this time, however, Candida is the lady who got away. --David Barbour 
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