Ben Brantley is merciless:
An hour or so into what feels like eons of stage time, one wise, scared little hobbit manages to express the feelings of multitudes. "This place is too dim and tree-ish for me," mutters a round-ish, twee-ish creature named Pippin, groping through a shadowy forest in the second act of the very expensive, largely incomprehensible musical version of "The Lord of the Rings," which opened Thursday at the Princess of Wales Theater here.
You speak not the half of it, O cherub-cheeked lad of Middle Earth. The production in which you exist so perilously is indeed a murky, labyrinthine wood from which no one emerges with head unmuddled, eyes unblurred or eardrums unrattled. Everyone and everything winds up lost in this $25 million adaptation of J. R. R. Tolkien's cult-inspiring trilogy of fantasy novels. That includes plot, character and the patience of most ordinary theatergoers.
Sounds like some ents are needed to send rivers following through the theater, washing this flop away.
Posted by armand at March 28, 2006 11:22 AM | TrackBack | Posted to Culture