Theatre in Review: Chess (Imperial Theatre) Chess is back, bigger than life and twice as noisy. Now on its third book (at least), the much-maligned musical remains an infectious score in search of a plausible, involving story. More than four decades on, it still struggles to get past the concept album stage: The original London production, taken over by Trevor Nunn after original stager Michael Bennett's death, had a decent run, but Nunn had it drastically revised for Broadway, using a lumbering new book by Richard Nelson. It crashed and burned after a couple of months, yet Chess never went away, thanks to the songs, living on in international productions, concert stagings, and, along the way, acquiring a new book by screenwriter Danny Strong. One of these days, they'll get it right! Or maybe not; in each incarnation, Chess is a musical sung through gritted teeth, featuring two protagonists, one suicidal and the other self-loathing and mentally disturbed, and a doormat leading lady who bounces between their beds, handing out chess tips along with her sexual favors. Because these two rival grandmasters are American and Russian, it's all a metaphor for Cold War politics, with everyone getting manipulated by government operatives. All this from the people who brought you Mamma Mia! Strong, probably reacting to long-running complaints that the action, loaded with defections, blackmail, and sudden changes of allegiance, is distressingly murky, works overtime trying to make everything clear. Most notably, the featured character, the Arbiter, who presides over the show's many chess matches, has been made into a narrator who provides frequent plot updates. This isn't the worst idea, but in practice, it results in the thanklessly cast Bryce Pinkham sneering at the characters, making dumb jokes about the current president and RFK. Jr., and constantly reminding us we are at a "Cold War musical," when he isn't dropping redundant plot points. "And now," he says, "with the SALT II Treaty still in peril, the CIA has to find out when the Russian delegates are going to return to the negotiating table." Seconds later, Walter, a CIA agent, enters and asks Molokov, his Soviet counterpart, "When are your delegates going to return to the negotiating table?" Glad we got that cleared up. At least two of the three leads manage to score, anyway. Freddie Trumper, the US player (and don't think Pinkham doesn't make a joke about that name), is one of the least appealing leading-man roles in musical theatre, but Aaron Tveit a performer of true grit, turns the soul-baring solo, "Pity the Child," into a riveting psychodrama that details a childhood marked by abuse and emotional abandonment. Tveit bravely doesn't try to soften his character, relying on his natural charisma to keep us interested in his bad behavior. Nicholas Christopher, who made a sizzling impression in Jelly's Last Jam at City Center's Encores a couple of years ago, brings tremendous dignity and not a little fire to Anatoly, the Russian contender, who, having been trained like a racehorse since his earliest years, has nothing left to offer in terms of love or friendship. He leans in, successfully, to the bombastic price-of-success lament "Where I Want to Be," and he brings the first act to a smashing close with "Anthem," a tribute to his homeland sung on the eve of defection. Whatever else is happening onstage, these two keep Chess watchable, making the most of the score's attractions. Less successful is Lea Michele as Florence, who is, in succession, Freddie and Anatoly's strategist and lover. The odds are stacked against her: The role is pretty terrible -- why does she put up with these whining, self-involved duds? -- and she is mired in a subplot about the 1956 Hungarian Revolution that is one of the show's many attempts at elevating these sudsy doings to the level of real political drama. Florence has two of the score's best songs, but in neither case is Michele well-served. The electric "Nobody's Side" is hijacked by Lorin Latarro's choreography, which places the chorus behind Michele, twitching like the victims of a mass neurological ailment. (More than once, I wished they would high-tail it for the wings.) The moving ballad, "Someone Else's Story," which details Florence's growing disaffection with Freddie, has been moved to very late in the second act, where it makes no sense as a referendum on her relationship with Anatoly. I understand the thinking -- a lady needs her eleven o'clock number -- but it's a failed strategy that undermines Michele's performance. Days later, I have a much more vivid memory of Judy Kuhn's Florence in the Broadway original. Even less appealing than Florence is Svetlana, Anatoly's estranged wife, who, fighting for her family's life, tries to blackmail him into returning to the Soviet Union. At least Hannah Cruz gets a chance to apply her stainless-steel vocals to the furious, "He is a Man, He is a Child," and to partner with Michele in the affecting duet "I Know Him So Well." Sean Allan Krill and Bradley Dean are a cunning pair of smoothies as, respectively, US and Russian spies, suavely lying through every new plot twist. But, for all the hard labor and overexplaining, by the time everyone assembles for a chess match that will allegedly end in nuclear winter if Anatoly doesn't throw it, Chess has once again gone off the rails. (Since we're all still here, you can guess how it works out.) The score by Benny Andersson, Tim Rice, and Bjorn Ulvaeus is irresistible eighties-era pop, with a few attractive side trips into operetta territory ("Mountain Duet," "You and I"). Ironically, the one breakout hit, "One Night in Bangkok," has so little to do with anything that each new version struggles to find a rationale for it. (Tveit does it proud here and, for once, the choreography fits the moment.) Even so, the proceedings occasionally get tongue-tied: "Nobody's Side" weds punchy lyrics to a staccato melody, nimbly dramatizing Florence's fury at being treated like a pawn among kings. Other numbers, like "Anthem" and "Someone Else's Story," make their points equally aptly. But how is it that an All-American lout like Freddie sings, "I'm only teasing Soviets/With gentle bonhomie"? (How does he even know that word?) Or why does Anatoly declare, "Listen, I hate to break up the mood/Get to the point, begin the beguine?" (Is he a closet Cole Porter fan?) And, frankly, after all these years, I'm still puzzling out why one night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble. Not that one can always make out the words. The first act is admirably easy to grasp, even with the high-pressure performances and John Shivers' wall-of-sound design, which isn't at all inappropriate given the overwrought action. But the chorus is at times hard-pressed to convey the lyrics, and the sometimes punishing loudness is counterproductive; the climax, with various characters screaming at Anatoly about something or other, is unintelligible. The rest of the production is as slick as anyone could wish. David Zinn's set is notable for accommodating the orchestra onstage, framed by towering chess pieces given sinister uplighting by Kevin Adams. The lighting designer also injects each number with a shot of pure caffeine, especially from the automated units lining the proscenium. Peter Nigrini supplies plenty of video imagery, including news broadcasts, newsreel footage of Hungarian patriots, and maps of Europe detailing various military maneuvers. Tom Broecker has elected to dress the principals in basic black, with grey suits for the chorus. It's a businesslike approach that suits the proceedings. Still, after decades of wrangling, this problematic piece ends up where it started, offering the same things it has always had: An alluring (if imperfect) show, a couple of charged-up stars, and a shiny staging concept. Based on box office reports, these elements are proving to be more than enough, the silly, soapy book notwithstanding. The next move is yours. --David Barbour 
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