I've never understood why Hedda Gabler is considered one of the most interesting and complicated heroines in dramatic literature. She always comes off as a capricious, cruel viper without being decent enough to evoke sympathy or vivid enough to cast an Iago-like fascination. Nicholas Martin's current Broadway revival of Ibsen's drama, while solid and lively, does little to make the play a grabber for our times. Kate Burton gives Hedda a modern chirpiness, Michael Emerson is too Pee Wee Hermanesque as her schlemiel hubby, and David Lansbury's Lovborg raves in a constant snit that lacks romantic grandeur.
Nearly all the performers overplay the subtext, underlining the dialogue with their gestures and ever-so meaningful gazes. It all plays out before us with much gusto and zero emotional resonance, again begging the question of whether Hedda Gabler, unlike the evergreen A Doll's House, has kept its skill but lost its thrill.
