Ethan Hawke has picked the worst possible time to show restraint. In this new "Macbeth," the star famous for throwing himself into every role with full-throttle enthusiasm mysteriously recedes into the background.
Aside from a few heated moments — and not even that heated, in the grand scheme of "Macbeth" things — the titular murderous Scotsman seems less present than the ghosts who haunt him. Often Hawke mumbles in a monotone, as if dead-set on foiling those who accuse him of overacting.
Meanwhile, he's surrounded by a production that's anything but shy or retiring.
Director Jack O'Brien has pushed the play's supernatural overtones to the forefront, starting with the mysterious pentagram-shaped graphic that set designer Scott Pask carved on the floor.
Add Japhy Weideman's fantastically stark lighting and Mark Bennett's bombastic, "Carmina Burana"-type music, and it's all so dramatic, you'd think you were at an Alexander McQueen runway show.
And the fun touches keep on coming, like the faithful Banquo (Brian d'Arcy James) emitting screams of agony when he's assassinated one stormy night.
And look at the rose petals turning black before the eyes of Lady Macbeth (Anne-Marie Duff) when her husband's out slaughtering the King (Richard Easton).
Driving the occult point home is goddess of the underworld Hecate (Francesca Faridany), who prances around looking like a Goth-Kabuki Lady Gaga. Catherine Zuber's costumes are a nonsensical mess, juxtaposing pseudo-medieval leather-and-mace battle gear with the black overcoats and combat boots that plague every other Shakespeare production.
A lot of this is entertaining in a 1980s, car-crash-horror kind of way. Less so is that the "weird sisters" are played by three cackling men, including John Glover hamming it up in a black nightie and fake sagging breasts.
This is a literal interpretation of Banquo's line about the witches having beards, but it doesn't add much to the production. And it would be nice if men stopped claiming all the roles for a change — they're hardly an endangered species on Broadway.
So there's a lot of brouhaha going on, and it's great that Lincoln Center Theater paid for the nifty production values and large ensemble — even if the final battle is bizarrely sparse and ineptly directed, with warriors running about haphazardly.
But there's no getting around Hawke's underwhelming performance, which doesn't vary much, aside from being dialed up in volume toward the end. Unfortunately, he also drags down his Lady Macbeth: Duff, a fine British actress, has little to act against.
It's almost enough to make you believe that the Scottish play really is cursed.
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