In the Broadway one-man show, The Mystery of Charles Dickens, starring Simon Callow, we see a 19th-Century man portrayed in 19th-Century grand-ham performance style, when there was no amplification in theaters, and one must above all be heard, mustn't one. The show, for the most part poorly written by Peter Ackroyd, begins with rather boring exposition about Dickens' early life. As it continues, Callow, at least in this show, proves to be basically a voice actor with unused physical capability. He gives us no reality in his characters -- all are exaggerated poses, and they overlap. There are some entertaining moments, but we are not emotionally engaged as he chews up the scenery.
In Act Two, a fast series of character changes grabs us for a few moments, but for most of the show we sit back, unmoved, and watch Callow blow. Odd, puzzling, intrusive lighting is by Nick Richings; the broken-frame set by Christopher Woods suffices. Patrick Garland, the director, doesn't seem to get that bluster and ranting do not make a show for more than ten minutes.
