Salome

The only thing I remember about the previous Broadway go-`round for Al Pacino's pet project, Salome, was its camp star lisping "Dance for me, Salome!" in a manner so effeminate, one wondered whether Herod wouldn't rather have John the Baptist waltz for him instead. Well, Pacino's mugging madly again, this time without scenery but also, mercifully, without the swishiness. As such, his natural command of a stage fascinates, and we do stay awake to see how he'll deliver every line of Oscar Wilde's thuddingly repetitious script.

As the stepdaughter who, in exchange for a sexy dance, will settle for nothing less than murder, Marisa Tomei takes on the persona of a snotty child - a valid interpretation if the teen didn't sound like she just came from the mall. Her all-important dance starts slowly and sexily and then just becomes embarrassingly frantic, partial nudity notwithstanding.

Playing John the Baptist as a mad prophet, David Strathairn has at least found his first role in awhile that he isn't playing in his sleep. Dianne Wiest has good, focused moments as Herod's bitter wife. Otherwise, it's an evening of strangeness, stylization, mish-mashed acting styes, too little plot, and too many words. Verily, I'd give half my kingdom to cut a half hour out of the running time.