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Their task is a difficult one for many reasons. Perhaps the most instantly visible is that, in this 1968 adaptation of Nikos Kazantzakis's 1946 novel Zorba the Greek, they're playing the roles of Zorba and Madame Hortense, which were squeezed of every drop of life-affirming juice by Anthony Quinn and Lila Kedrova in the 1964 film. (So defining was the pair, in fact, that they repeated their film roles in the musical's 1983 Broadway revival.) But if there's even a hint of apprehension of unworthiness, it's not all visible in either of Turturro's or Wanamaker's zesty portrayals. Both capture a fabulistic fearlessness that's just right for two people who choose anew every day to live as though there will never be another moment to savor. Turturro embodies this most readily, his grabbing, voracious gusto tumbling from him from behind a wall of discontent; he really projects the sense that he's desperate, even angry, about the prospect of missing a second of what existence has to offer. Yet he prevents this lustiness from devolving into caricature, instead maintaining a tight grip on his feelings so you know, at every step along the way, that he's making a choice few others can. Wanamaker's spin is more subtle but no less commanding, finding an effervescence within the ever-accelerating regression of an ailing French woman back to her finest self at her 16th birthday party. She's coquettish, yes, with an obvious yen for tasting the love she's been denied for so long. But just as powerful a force is her innocence, her unshakable belief that the itinerant, constantly straying Zorba can and will be tamed, and that she'll come to mean as much to him as he already does to her. Deluded? Sure, but also endearing, and here, that matters more. Neither possesses a singing voice worth speaking of, though both manage to stay in tune, say, a solid 80 percent of the time. But when Turturro bursts forth with his life philosophies in "The First Time" or "I Am Free," or Wanamaker muses on the power of affection ("Only Love") or her own wiles ("No Boom Boom"), or embraces her one perfect day as she faces down her dubious eternal reward ("Happy Birthday"), you're seeing performances of such thrilling musicality and dramatic intensity that everything else ceases to matter for just a few minutes.
Nor do other, still more significant, echoes. Telling of the young Niko (played here by Santino Fontana), who inherits a mine in Crete and upon arriving to take possession of it becomes wrapped up in Zorba's advice and an ill-advised love affair with a local widow (Elizabeth A. Davis), it's drenched in darkness and tragedy almost throughout. And being set apart from the viewer still further by a tavern-philosophy framing device that finds its perpetrator, known only as The Leader (Marin Mazzie), and her acolytes weaving into and out of (and comment upon) the action, cools things off still more. Unlike Fiddler and Cabaret, however, Zorba finds no exaltation in these events and has little fun in presenting them; it has often been labeled "depressing," and that's not an unfair assessment, particularly given a parade of nearly nonstop horrors in the second act. True, Stein's book has been gutted by John Weidman for his "concert adaptation," its chemistry and structure vitiated to the point that you may well have no clue what function characters like The Leader, the boy Mimiko (Adam Chanler-Berat), the brooding young man Pavli (Carlos Valdes), or Pavli's father (Robert Cuccioli) are supposed to serve. (My guest, unfamiliar with the stage version, said he could hardly follow it at Encores!, despite knowing the novel.) But even when performed full, the book is languid and listless, and the score, though deeply flavorful thanks to Don Walker's expert orchestrations (a mandolin, a bouzouki, an oud, and a dumbeg are among the instruments), second-rate Kander and Ebb at best. This is a show that speaks unmistakably of (and, one suspects, to) its era and its creators' careers, but otherwise doesn't have a lot to offer. It may capitalize on what made Fiddler and Cabaret great and timeless, but it translates those qualities into, at best, a shaky homage, or, at worst, a cynical photocopy. Walter Bobbie has directed respectably, but can't compensate for either Weidman's narrative shreds or the material's naturally sluggish pacing. Choreographer Josh Rhodes's dances (sirtaki, as one might expect, receives a heavy focus) play somewhat better, but there's a heaviness and a joylessness about them. Much the same be said of Anna Louizos's sets, William Ivey Long's costumes, and Ken Billington's lights, or most of the performances. Fontana strikes the proper notes of unforced charm in his naïf role, and presents an appealing vessel from which Niko's soul can be filled. But all of the other supporting actors seem ill at ease, even vocally (Mazzie's and Davis's voices do not sit well in their songs), which casts an undeniable pall on the evening. You're more grateful than ever, then, when Turturro and Wanamaker are able to slice through it to find so much affectless humanity waiting beneath. When their Zorba and Hortense are pursuing each other, and by extension their best-possible selves, you can't help but believe that they really are showing you, as a lyric runs, that "life is how the time goes by." When they're not at center stage, alas, that time goes by very, very slowly.
Zorba
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