Theatre in Review: The Visit (Lyceum Theatre)We've seen Chita Rivera enliven so many musicals with her firecracker personality that it's remarkable to experience what she can achieve with her presence alone. Stillness -- alluring, malign, and carrying a hint of brimstone -- is her stock-in-trade in The Visit, along with an economy of means that belongs to only the greatest of stars. She enters, clad in white satin with fur trim and matching hat, dripping in jewels, clutching a walking stick that, one suspects, would make an effective weapon; taking her time, she approaches the edge of the stage and stares into the middle distance, accepting a thundering ovation from the audience yet looking distinctly impatient, as if itching to get down to the ugly, murderous business that is the new musical's raison d'êre. She barely seems to take in the magnificently ruined train station in which she stands or the dusty, stained clothing worn by those who have come to welcome her, instead keeping an eye on the middle distance, her face a death mask of indifference. In the voice of one who thought she was beyond surprise, she growls, "My God, it's even worse than I remembered." It's an entrance worthy of one of the last great golden-era stars. As you probably know, Rivera is Claire Zachanassian, the gypsy girl who climbed through the beds of eight different husbands, increasing her net worth with each new set of widow's weeds. (She offers a sardonic musical catalogue of her marital adventures, condensing some of the less memorable middle spouses: "Numbers three to five were sickly/They were quickly laid to rest/Plague, cirrhosis, and a plane crash/Which left me quite depressed." Clearly, to love her is to sign one's death warrant.) By her own reckoning, Claire's glamour is something of an illusion; one leg is false and an arm is made of ivory, the results of accidents in her tumultuous past. "I'm unkillable," she says, and there can be no doubters in the house. (Her entourage, including a blind butler and a pair of eunuchs in whiteface, add to her impossible-to-ignore presence.) Yet the ticking of the clock is unescapable in the number "Love and Love Alone." Singing in a kind of whisper, Claire warns the world, "So beware young love/Lost in a kiss/There's a truth, young love/Simple as this/Every fond hello ends in goodbye/What seems certain to live will die." She then takes part in a pas de deux with the shadow of her younger self, innocence and experience caught in a dance to the music of time. Rivera pours a lifetime of experience into this performance; she is the dark heart of The Visit, its fleur du mal. Now in her 80s, it's fascinating to see that she still has so many surprises hidden up her beautifully tailored sleeve. Would The Visit work without her? It's a fair question. The Friedrich Dürrenmatt play that has provided the source material has the reputation of being a classic, and it will be forever enshrined in theatre history for providing the Lunts with their great Broadway swan song. But, read today, either in Maurice Valency's somewhat romanticized adaptation or in more faithful translations, it is a surprisingly inert piece of work. (A revival, some years ago, starring Jane Alexander, was rather dull, although a Harold Prince staging in the '70s, with John McMartin and Rachel Roberts, is fondly remembered by those who saw it.) The action is simple: Claire has returned to Brachen, her hometown, which has fallen on evil days. Factories have closed, businesses have shuttered, money has dried up like a drought-plagued river. The townspeople hope that she will favor them with some form of fiscal bailout. Indeed, Claire promises them billions of marks, with one catch: They have to kill Anton Schell, the local shopkeeper who, years ago, seduced her and threw her out into the world. The trouble with The Visit in all its forms is that the play simply marks time until the villagers, who initially reject Claire's offer, come around. There is no conflict -- it is clear from the get-go that Anton's days are numbered -- and, consequently, there is no suspense. In its original, three-act version, The Visit, without a dazzling production, can be a bore. The good news is that the creative team has done much to streamline the play's action, taking Dürrenmatt's acrid commentary on bourgeois European morality in the aftermath of world war and the death camps, and stylizing it into a gothic romance that cannot be fulfilled this side of the grave. Terrence McNally's book reduces the narrative to a single act while retaining all the essential central events, highlighting the stunning hypocrisy with which the citizens of Brachen rationalize their accommodation to Claire as a case of justice long denied. ("Thank you, Anton, for taking responsibility for your sins," one of them says.) The composer, John Kander, has abandoned his trademark vamps and uptempo rhythms for world-weary, faintly continental melodies, many of them flecked with discordant notes like dead leaves rustling in a graveyard. The lyricist, the late Fred Ebb, provided words that stare directly into the hearts of its characters and their all-too-accommodating souls. John Doyle's production unfolds with the logic of an eerie, half-remembered dream. Aided by his accomplished choreographer, Graciela Daniele, the number "Yellow Shoes," in which the villagers dream of spending Claire's money, is staged as a sinister soft-shoe, performed seated on pieces of luggage. An image of the company lined up, bags in hand, looks strangely like photos of displaced persons in World War II. A coffin, opened up, provides eerie uplight on the faces of those looking into it. Claire and Anton are constantly accompanied by their younger selves -- embodied by the beautiful, graceful John Riddle and Michelle Veintimilla -- reminding us what has been lost; Daniele's staging of "Love and Love Alone" is a remarkable piece of minimalism, each gesture hinting at worlds of long-suppressed feelings. Rivera has a fine partner in Roger Rees, whose Anton is a sad sack of middle-class propriety, glancing fearfully into the future that seems increasingly dim; a rare moment of poignancy is achieved when he realizes that even his family have abandoned him. There are also solid contributions from Jason Danieley as the schoolmaster who briefly argues Anton's case; David Garrison, whose attitude of shocked propriety changes all too quickly; and Mary Beth Peil as Anton's wife, who clutches him jealously in front of Claire but is soon seen parading around in a yellow mink stole bought on credit. Tom Nelis is a compelling presence as the unseeing butler. Scott Pask's stunning set design places the action in Brachen's disused train station, its barrel-vaulted ceiling marked by pane after pane of broken glass. Ann Hould-Ward's costumes sharply contrast Claire's icily chic style, and that of her well-dressed minions, with the dusty, dirty, stained everyday wear of the townspeople of Brachen. As per the song mentioned above, they begin dressing themselves in yellow accessories, a blinding symbol of their corruption. Japhy Weideman's brilliant lighting design uses big single-source sidelight ideas that blast the company, turning them into figures in a frieze of human cupidity. Dan Moses Schreier's sound design is beautifully transparent, creating the necessary atmosphere of intimacy. The central problem of The Visit is not entirely solved; even at 90 minutes, there is a certain lack of meaningful action. The number "A Car Ride," in which Anton and his family take part in an outing, feels a bit like padding, and "The Only One," in which Danieley's schoolteacher describes his defense of Anton, is a little stentorian. But Doyle's production, with its murmurs of evil, draws us in, and the sight of Kander, Ebb, and Rivera, none of whom have, or had, anything left to prove, still taking such enormous artistic risks, is nothing less than thrilling. Rivera, especially; she fills the stage with a presence that is equally compelling and chilling, and totally unforgettable. We can be grateful that once again she has graced us with this Visit. -- David Barbour 
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