Theatre in Review: The Heiress (Walter Kerr Theatre)No expense has been spared in mounting the latest revival of The Heiress. Derek McLane's set, depicting a Manhattan parlor, circa 1850, is suitably eye-filling, with its deep-red floral wallpaper, stately columns, plushly upholstered furnishings, and the kind of carpet that is designed to eliminate the noise of servants skittering about. It's both handsome and a little bit forbidding, a suitable setting for a household where propriety reigns and love is in markedly short supply. David Lander's lighting is, as always, thoroughly meticulous, whether conjuring sunlight stealing in past thick curtains, casting a chilly gaslight glow on a winter's night, or capturing the title character, framed by streetlight coming in through the front window. Albert Wolsky's costumes capture the bell-shaped silhouettes and elaborate furbelows of the era's dresses, along with the precisely tailored men's suits. A notable cast -- a mix of new-to-Broadway faces and old pros -- works hard and often incisively, illuminating the insights -- drawn from Henry James' novel, Washington Square -- into the sometimes unlovely role of money in the era's marital arrangements. But all of this good work is for naught if you don't have the right actress for the title role, and this, sadly, is an Heiress without a plausible heiress. As Catherine Sloper, a young, unmarried lady of means who lives in terror of her aggrieved father and who falls desperately, heedlessly in love with a handsome, and impoverished, gentleman caller, Jessica Chastain -- a fine film actress -- delivers a characterization that is most notable for its emotional constriction. The actress' approach is minimal, often using a single gesture to suggest an emotional state; to show that Catherine is withering under her father's critical gaze, Chastain looks down at the floor. Melting under the attentions of Morris Townsend, a young man of good manners and dubious character, she smiles tentatively, gazing into his eyes. When, faced with the destruction of her dream of marriage, she cries out, "Someone must love me!", the effect is more commanding than heartbreaking. "My whole happiness is at stake," Catherine says at one point, but really you'd hardly know it, her vocal delivery is so flat. Unless you feel that Catherine, in falling in love with Morris, is putting her soul on the line, The Heiress is nothing more than a fussy evening of bustles and sherry tippling. Watching Chastain, I found myself thinking constantly of Cherry Jones' career-making performance as Catherine in the 1997 revival. Her pathetic nervousness in social situations was painful to watch. When she fell in love, she glowed more brightly than any lighting unit on stage. And when she registered, with a powerful silence, the news that her lover had withdrawn, the result was shattering. In her hands, this old-fashioned vehicle by Ruth and Augustus Goetz seemed like a major American drama. Chastain lacks the emotional and vocal range that the part requires; altogether missing is the necessary vulnerability, a deep need to be told that she is worthy of love. And when, in the final scene, we are meant to see a woman who has put such concerns aside forever -- in effect, crushing her own spirit -- she doesn't seem very much changed at all. One wonders if Chastain -- last seen on stage in the unhappy Public Theater Othello of 2009 -- has become out of touch with the demands of stage acting. It may well be that her approach would blossom under the camera's gaze; in the confines of the Walter Kerr, it barely registers. The Heiress is an unusual assignment for Moisés Kaufman; the director has few, if any, classic well-made plays on his resume. Nevertheless, his staging is well-paced and features several striking performances. David Strathairn is first-rate as Catherine's father, his manner often chillingly dismissive, his eyes filled with anger and disappointment at having fathered "an entirely mediocre and defenseless creature without a shred of poise." As Lavinia, the aunt who is Catherine's companion and co-conspirator, Judith Ivey is a pure delight -- a giggling mountain of ribbons and frills, her handkerchief waving like a semaphore, her eyes glittering and her tongue darting in and out of her mouth as she slyly takes note of Morris' good looks. But when Catherine admits having told Morris that, without her father's approval, her fortune will be very much diminished, the look of horror on Ivey's face reveals the cool calculation behind her promotion of an alliance between Catherine and Morris. As Morris, Dan Stevens, best known as Downton Abbey's Matthew Crawley, suffers from the lack of a vividly realized Catherine to romance. He cuts a fine figure in period costume, and when he turns his attention on her, his blue eyes blazing and his words gently, subtly seductive, it's easy to see why she finds him irresistible. But there's something a little too smooth about his manner from the start; that Morris should want to marry Catherine for her money is a given, but there should be a teasing ambiguity about his feelings for her. His motives are a little too transparent, which further diminishes the drama. The rest of the supporting cast is perfectly solid, especially Virginia Kull as a servant who keeps close watch on her employers, as is Leon Rothenberg's sound design, which blends a variety of effects -- horse's hooves on pavement, tolling church bells -- to suggest the life of the street outside the Slopers' door. But there's very little reason to revive The Heiress unless you have a gifted leading lady with the presence and range the role demands. This was simply a bad idea.--David Barbour 
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