No, not the movie, folks. That still and will always work as a crafty horror film, thanks to the lush direction of William Friedkin and finely-honed performances by the likes of Max Von Sydow, Jason Miller, Ellen Burstyn, and Linda Blair. Say what you want about the controversial subject matter, it is a screen classic that still works well on your Blu-Ray player, especially with the lights out.
Yet, in a desperate attempt to find any kind of content to mount on the legitimate stage, some producing felons have turned this tale into a drama that is allegedly destined for Broadway. From what I saw in its Los Angeles run, it will never reach the Great White Way, unless somebody in New York decides it's a great way to ease traffic on 44th Street. More likely, "The Exorcist" will stumble around and land somewhere in Nebraska, which is a fitting site for a theatrical pergatory. And, if the producers follow it to that state, they should know that I think the act of stoning is still legal there.
Mercifully, the culprits behind "The Exorcist" have chosen to move the story along at a crisp pace. What apparently started as a two act play has been reduced to one act running 95 minutes. Don't think the playwright-in-question was trying to be precise. He had a hidden agenda. If there was an intermission, most of the audience would likely head for the exits at the act break.
What possessed me to see this swill? Well, I have to admit to a bit of curiosity. How would they pull off all those special effects on the stage? And would there be the expected projectile vomiting? Luckily, there was none, although, by the end of the Geffen run, it might actually happen and come from the direction of the audience. Yep, "The Exorcist" can be that unsettling.
But, I sampled this dreck nonetheless, accompanied by my pastor who was really there to fulfill a lifetime desire to drool over star Richard Chamberlain in person, as if she even has a shot with the guy. On my other side was good friend and staunch Catholic, Djinn from the Bronx, who was fretting pre-show about being exposed to the William Peter Blatty saga for the first time in her life. I figured that, with these two religious devotees in tow, I was in good company. And, indeed, we all were. But, by the end of the show, we were stifling giggles. Only the Devil knows how we could keep a straight face.
The major problem, as if I can only concentrate on one, is the script itself. Okay, the writer is John Pielmeier, who previously wrote "Agnes of God," so we know that, at the very least, he knows how to roll a piece of paper into a Smith Corona. But, what results from his adaptation of the Blatty novel is the most stilted dialogue this side of an episode of "Full House." The words are so ludicrous that the only place this script might work is as a daily novella on Telemundo. In Spanish, the play would make a whole lot more sense. Or maybe not.
Perhaps, a comedic touch would have been more welcomed. How about running this through script doctor Neil Simon? I can see wonderful possibilities. There's "Vatican Suite." Or "Barefoot in the Narthex." Hey, here's an idea. John the Baptist is forced to live with Jesus while visiting Nazareth. John's a little messy and...
Oh, well. Thank goodness nobody opted to turn "The Exorcist" into a musical. Can you imagine that? With Harry Connick Jr. as Father Karras?
"Life ain't grand. Life ain't so well. The Devil wants me to go to Hell."
I doth digress...
Pielmeier sticks more closely to Blatty's original work, so there's less of a reliance on scare tactics in this stage production. Other than that, the story remains the same. Young Regan, daughter of screen actress Chris, is possessed by Satan. You know when Lucifer shows up because the lights flash and there are screeching noises you normally hear on the 405 Freeway during a sudden downpour. The entire cast remains on-stage throughout the show. If not doing their own lines, they're in the background adding to the soundtrack as the Devil. Or simply mumbling endless vespers and they all sound like a cartoon where Mr. Magoo gets lost in St. Peter's Basilica.
Teller, of the famed Penn and Teller, is credited with some of the flimsy slight-of-hand used in the show. There's a quick levitation, but, sadly, the power of the script was not raised concurrently. Blood spills from a cross that hangs over the proceedings and all that did was prove to me that the Geffen's recent remodel might have included a nifty new drainage system. Meanwhile, it appears that the producers could spring for only one prop. A chalice that is used over and over. One of the priests wants some coffee? Out comes the chalice. One character munching on popcorn served in a....wait for it, chalice. Some people might call this symbolism. I call it a show budget of about nine bucks.
As for the cast and the acting, less could be said, but what fun would that be? Brooke Shields, who I think does have some comedic chops, doesn't find the funny here. She plays Regan's mother as if she's still channeling the character of "Rizzo" from "Grease." We know she's really concerned about her daughter because she says "fuck" a lot. Meanwhile, Brooke hasn't looked this uncomfortable since she was running around in her Fruit-of-the-Looms with Christopher Atkins in "The Blue Lagoon." Thank God she can fall back on her job as spokesperson for La-Z-Boy furniture. Hey, that can be a lucrative gig. Heck, I just bought a living room set from them.
In the pivotal role of Father Damien Karras, some nebbish named David Wilson Barnes brings as much energy to the evening as a motor home generator that somebody forgot to recharge. His main acting choice is to stare down at his shoes and question his religious belief, as if he just discovered that God doesn't look kindly on people who wear penny loafers. His delivery facilitates between Gobi Desert-flat to one that you would hear on a television game show. Father Bill Cullen. According to the credits, Barnes has worked before. After "The Exorcist," he might not ever again.
Broadway veteran Harry Groener hams up the role of drunken film director Burke Dennings so much that he probably should enter the stage wearing pineapple glaze and some cloves. His presence in the play prompts the most ridiculous suspension of logic. Worried about her daughter's health, why, oh, why would a mother leave her child for ten minutes in the care of an alcoholic lunatic? Forget calling the Catholic Church about this play. Somebody notify Social Services about the poor parenting choice suggested by this playwright. In a dramatic moment, Regan snaps Burke's neck. I swear that I heard several people in the theater cheer.
As the object of my pastor's optical affection, Richard Chamberlain perhaps suffers the most in the "lead" role of Father Merrin. Besides conducting the exorcism himself, his job is to pop out from time to time and offer little mini-sermons that may have originated in the pages of the Catholic Digest. At the very beginning, he tells us that Satan has appeared in a variety of places. Cambodia, Auschwitz, Somalia and maybe even in San Francisco at Nancy Pelosi's house. Attempting to tie this old story into current events, Chamberlain acts less as a narrator and more like the New York Times Archives.
Meanwhile, Chamberlain looks so pained that you would think he just got a dressing down from Raymond Massey as Dr. Gillespie. Supposedly, our own Dr. Kildare is only doing this role in the LA production. If the show goes to Broadway...please hold for my laughter...Father Merrin will be played by Malcolm McDowell. Smart move, Dick. You can hightail it back to Hawaii and sip a smart cocktail underneath a palm tree and forget about your six weeks at the Geffen.
These days, you can't go to a theatrical production without seeing the requisite standing ovation at the conclusion. Very few shows merit such a reaction, but virtually all get it. Except for "The Exorcist." At the end and during the curtain calls, there was mild applause. Hands clapping. Or maybe that was the sound of folks slapping themselves awake. Whatever the case, tepid responses in a small theater in Los Angeles certainly never translate to good reviews in Times Square.
There are ways they could have mounted this show. Personally, a complete satirical touch would have been welcomed. "National Lampoon's Exorcist," anybody? But, realistically, the producers should have just looked at the original script and say what I should have said when presented with the notion of buying tickets to "The Exorcist."
The hell with it.
Just for the record again, "The Exorcist" was written by John Pielmeier, directed by Randall Arney, and produced by complete mistake.
Dinner last night: Steak, mushrooms, and salad---a great dinner at the home of good friends Leo and Connie.
