Performances update and redeem "The Heiress"
By John Moore, Denver Post Theater Critic
The past 59 years, "The Heiress" has inherited plenty of baggage lined with cobwebs: It's a weepy old period dramedy that might easily have been buried in a time capsule, never, for the good of girls globally, to be unearthed again.
But here comes the Arvada Center, digging up this tired chestnut about the homely rich girl duped into believing a handsome pauper might actually love her not for her money but for ... well, what, then? Her social anxiety? Dim wit? Bermuda Triangle hairstyle?
Yes, the 1949 film won an Oscar for Olivia de Havilland, but through today's prism, you can only sympathize with a plain Jane like Catherine Sloper the way you pity a miserable old pooch that's to be put down. "C'mon," you're thinking. "What's love got to do with it? Don't be such a hopelessly naive, sniveling simp. Just use this guy like a cabana boy and enjoy your life!" But no, Catherine must be luuuuuved.
Yet two things about director Bev-Newcomb Madden's new dust-job at the Arvada Center work not only to redeem this "Heiress" but to make it compelling and even relevant.
The first is the exquisite performance by area newcomer Norah Long, who somehow channels all of Catherine's aggravating angst into something that is ultimately, perhaps even miraculously, feminist.
The second is watching the twisted psych job done to Catherine by her father, Dr. Austin Sloper (William Denis at his Donald Sutherland-looking finest). There's a sinister underbelly to this tale of a dictatorial papa who, turns out, isn't being overprotective of his delicate flower after all. He's just a cruel jerk who no longer can mask his utter disappointment in her. Her crimes? She's unremarkable, clumsy and skittish. Unworthy of public display. Denis and Long bring such psychological complexity to their roles they keep their dance fascinating.
If only Newcomb-Madden had cut this stuffed steamer trunk down to size, especially its bloated first act, she'd really have something. The director could start by lopping up to five superfluous supporting characters who factor in just one key piece of plot - one that could easily be reassigned to doting Aunt Lavinia (Beth Flynn).
"The Heiress," based on the Henry James novella "Washington Square," is set in 1850s New York. Catherine is being courted by Morris Townsend (Wolf J. Sherrill), a wandering lothario of limited means. Her father, deeply suspicious of his motives and embittered by his wife's death in childbirth, forbids marriage.
The driving force becomes the ambiguous, constantly shifting fix we think we have on these characters' motives and mind-sets. The doctor's seeming paternal caution turns incrementally into something undeniably venal. He's suspicious only because he finds the idea of his daughter being desirable to any man incomprehensible. What's truly twisted is, he's right.
Catherine, an aging ingénue only too aware of her diminishing prospects, is at first blinded by affection. But over time she resigns herself to a "take what I can get" mentality before finally arriving at a heroic place.
How these two monstrous arcs intersect at any given time completely colors how you feel about the play at any given time. Who appears fair and honest is always changing. Even weaselly Morris makes you think twice - for a second.
This reviewer's own arc came full circle 24 hours after the play ended, when Super Bowl ads costing millions were showing bimbos in truck commercials juxtaposed with Dove Foundation spots depicting lovely little girls against text such as "hates her freckles," "thinks she's ugly," "wishes she were blond."
Just when you are sure "The Heiress" is about as timely as a horse and carriage, here comes this huge corporate "Self-Esteem Fund," because, the ad says, "every girl deserves to feel good about herself."
So is the "The Heiress" dated after all? Thankfully, the answer is still "yes, for the most part." While we still have screwed-up conceptions of beauty versus booty, what we don't have (as much) are dads telling their daughters outright they are plain and witless and without charm.
But it is Catherine's final act, made without moving a muscle, that ranks "The Heiress" up there with "Hedda Gabler" in feminist literature - some might even say storybook.
You go, girl. Or stay. Whatever you want to do.
The past 59 years, "The Heiress" has inherited plenty of baggage lined with cobwebs: It's a weepy old period dramedy that might easily have been buried in a time capsule, never, for the good of girls globally, to be unearthed again.
But here comes the Arvada Center, digging up this tired chestnut about the homely rich girl duped into believing a handsome pauper might actually love her not for her money but for ... well, what, then? Her social anxiety? Dim wit? Bermuda Triangle hairstyle?
Yes, the 1949 film won an Oscar for Olivia de Havilland, but through today's prism, you can only sympathize with a plain Jane like Catherine Sloper the way you pity a miserable old pooch that's to be put down. "C'mon," you're thinking. "What's love got to do with it? Don't be such a hopelessly naive, sniveling simp. Just use this guy like a cabana boy and enjoy your life!" But no, Catherine must be luuuuuved.
Yet two things about director Bev-Newcomb Madden's new dust-job at the Arvada Center work not only to redeem this "Heiress" but to make it compelling and even relevant.
The first is the exquisite performance by area newcomer Norah Long, who somehow channels all of Catherine's aggravating angst into something that is ultimately, perhaps even miraculously, feminist.
The second is watching the twisted psych job done to Catherine by her father, Dr. Austin Sloper (William Denis at his Donald Sutherland-looking finest). There's a sinister underbelly to this tale of a dictatorial papa who, turns out, isn't being overprotective of his delicate flower after all. He's just a cruel jerk who no longer can mask his utter disappointment in her. Her crimes? She's unremarkable, clumsy and skittish. Unworthy of public display. Denis and Long bring such psychological complexity to their roles they keep their dance fascinating.
If only Newcomb-Madden had cut this stuffed steamer trunk down to size, especially its bloated first act, she'd really have something. The director could start by lopping up to five superfluous supporting characters who factor in just one key piece of plot - one that could easily be reassigned to doting Aunt Lavinia (Beth Flynn).
"The Heiress," based on the Henry James novella "Washington Square," is set in 1850s New York. Catherine is being courted by Morris Townsend (Wolf J. Sherrill), a wandering lothario of limited means. Her father, deeply suspicious of his motives and embittered by his wife's death in childbirth, forbids marriage.
The driving force becomes the ambiguous, constantly shifting fix we think we have on these characters' motives and mind-sets. The doctor's seeming paternal caution turns incrementally into something undeniably venal. He's suspicious only because he finds the idea of his daughter being desirable to any man incomprehensible. What's truly twisted is, he's right.
Catherine, an aging ingénue only too aware of her diminishing prospects, is at first blinded by affection. But over time she resigns herself to a "take what I can get" mentality before finally arriving at a heroic place.
How these two monstrous arcs intersect at any given time completely colors how you feel about the play at any given time. Who appears fair and honest is always changing. Even weaselly Morris makes you think twice - for a second.
This reviewer's own arc came full circle 24 hours after the play ended, when Super Bowl ads costing millions were showing bimbos in truck commercials juxtaposed with Dove Foundation spots depicting lovely little girls against text such as "hates her freckles," "thinks she's ugly," "wishes she were blond."
Just when you are sure "The Heiress" is about as timely as a horse and carriage, here comes this huge corporate "Self-Esteem Fund," because, the ad says, "every girl deserves to feel good about herself."
So is the "The Heiress" dated after all? Thankfully, the answer is still "yes, for the most part." While we still have screwed-up conceptions of beauty versus booty, what we don't have (as much) are dads telling their daughters outright they are plain and witless and without charm.
But it is Catherine's final act, made without moving a muscle, that ranks "The Heiress" up there with "Hedda Gabler" in feminist literature - some might even say storybook.
You go, girl. Or stay. Whatever you want to do.