Edition: U.S. / Global

Replacements in Star Roles Feel Their Way

Published: May 3, 2002


Yes, that's a sigh of relief. Actually, to be perfectly accurate, the exclamation should read, "Wh!," meaning half a sigh of relief.

It can happily be announced this morning that Mel Brooks's "Producers" — the biggest, most hope-inspiring hit to emerge on Broadway in many a season — is still the flashiest, brassiest and most purely entertaining show in town.

The chorus line of little old ladies and their tapping aluminum walkers; the swastika-wearing pigeons; the prancing theater queens who insist that a show need only "keep it gay" to succeed — they are all in fine, exquisitely vulgar form. And Adolf Hitler, reincarnated as a song-and-dance man who combines the styles of Al Jolson and Judy Garland, still brings down the house.

There is, however, a slight problem with the title characters. The actors playing them are no longer named Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick. And the hard-working, perfectly likable fellows who have replaced them, Brad Oscar and Steven Weber, don't begin to approach the same standards of teamwork. It is as if they had been shoved into someone else's custom-tailored suits and then asked to grow or shrink into the clothes through sheer willpower.

This would not be a reasonable demand under any circumstances. And if you've been following news from the Rialto in recent weeks, you'll know that the pressures on Mr. Oscar and Mr. Weber have been exceptional.

Mr. Lane's original replacement as Max Bialystock, the hungry Broadway producer with a desperate scam to make millions, was the esteemed British actor Henry Goodman. It seemed a bold and intriguing choice. Mr. Goodman, known for his celebrated portrayal of Shylock at the Royal National Theater, looked and sounded nothing like Mr. Lane. There was no chance of a carbon-copy interpretation.

Yet on April 14, after 30 performances, Mr. Goodman was out. He was "the right actor in the wrong role," said Rocco Landesman, one of the producers of "The Producers." Enter Mr. Oscar, who had been the understudy for Mr. Goodman and Mr. Lane while continuing in his Tony-nominated role as Franz Liebkind, the fanatical Nazi playwright with a passion for pigeons.

The general complaint about Mr. Goodman had been that he wasn't broad enough, that he wasn't getting the same laughs as Mr. Lane. Mr. Oscar does indeed get the laughs that Mr. Lane did — at least in the same places, if not at the same decibel level. And if you squint hard, or happen to seated in the rear balcony, you might mistake the rubber-faced Mr. Oscar for the rubber-faced Mr. Lane.

For Mr. Oscar is doing his level best to channel Mr. Lane's Tony-winning performance. The Lane-style grimaces, the exasperated line readings, the flamboyant gestures are often rendered with conscientious exactitude. Mr. Oscar has the fiery energy to put them over, and he manages the considerable feat of holding your attention throughout "Betrayed," Max's exhausting 11 o'clock number.

But you also sense the strains of imitation and of a self-conscious distance between a good actor and his role. The sidelong glances that announce Max's impending hysteria and the sudden wild and sleazy smiles are Mr. Oscar's own. In time, he may indeed be able to claim the part for himself.

This would seem to be less a possiblity for Mr. Weber, the former star of the long-running television series "Wings." As Leo Bloom, the nebbishy accountant seduced into the grime and glory of showbiz, he sings and dances pleasantly and self-effacingly. Mostly, he registers as a handsome, conventional leading man impersonating a nerd.

The gaps between Leo's fantasy and reality selves aren't nearly as piquant. You appreciate all the more Mr. Broderick's gift for mixing caricature with emotional conviction. Like Mr. Oscar, if to a lesser degree, Mr. Weber gets his laughs.

But it's less the character than the one-liners and the props, like Leo's little security blanket, that elicit those laughs. The difference between the Lane-Broderick pairing and that of Mr. Oscar and Mr. Weber is the difference between personality-driven wit and situation-driven jokes.

Having reluctantly made these dour criticisms, I would still like to report that I had a swell time at "The Producers." Mr. Brooks, the play's book and song writer, and Susan Stroman, his director and choreographer, have fashioned a Rube Goldberg contraption of a show that will never entirely disappoint as long as the machinery runs smoothly.

The production numbers remain the most imaginative on Broadway, with the possible exception (in a very different vein) of those in "The Lion King," and I still found my face stretched into smiles more often than I have at any other point in this largely smile-free season.

The supporting performers — for that matter, the entire ensemble — radiate a happy, crazy confidence. Jim Borstelmann, who has replaced Mr. Oscar as Franz, does very well by his second-act show-stopper, the marvelous ersatz beer-garden song, "Haben Sie Gehoert Das Deutsche Band?"

But it's Gary Beach, Roger Bart and Cady Huffman, all members of the original cast, who best embody the immense and distinctive appeal of "The Producers." Ms. Huffman is Ulla, the Swedish secretary and sex machine, and Mr. Beach and Mr. Bart are respectively Roger de Bris, the gloriously tacky director, and Carmen Ghia, his sibilant assistant.

Each of these first-rate performers takes a flaming stereotype and turns it into a joyful, sui generis creation that's part commedia dell'arte clown and part fine-toothed satire. When they're commanding the stage, "The Producers" is every inch what it was.

That's more than often enough to justify the price of an orchestra seat to the show ($100) at the St. James. If you're in the market for the special $480 seats created to beat the scalpers at their own game, think twice. Or at least wait until Mr. Oscar has had some time to find his own feet.