In Broken Glass, his remarkably vital return to Broadway, Arthur Miller tries to connect three concurrent tragedies: a middle-aged woman’s sudden paralysis, her husband’s impotence and the subsequent hardening of their marriage, and Kristallnacht - happening a continent away but on the front page of every newspaper.
Linking these is somewhat like blaming Whitewater on Bosnia and Bosnia on the New York Islanders, but Miller understands (better than Glass’s cocky doctor and brittle patients) that in this world, cause and effect are joined so mystically, free-floating guilt is as valid an explanation as any. Miller’s grand-guignol resolution borders on the hokey, so it’s best to ignore the occasional passage of psycho-blather and appreciate just how much of Broken Glass rides along on a current of humor and well-seasoned bile.
As the self-hating husband, Ron Rifkin proves his mettle even before he shocks the audience by twice turning his entire head borscht red. David Dukes’s portrayal of rakish Dr. Hyman is just arrogant/charming enough to be right on the money; Amy Irving, in a slightly underwritten part, does her best to make the final catharsis stick. Strong work, too, from Frances Conroy, Lauren Klein, and especially George N. Martin, as the kind of boss who’s inwardly racist, outwardly fair, and in a way the most realistic character in the piece.
Santo Loquasto’s eye for costumes (jodhpurs for the doctor, a lovely pink robe for Irving) and John Tillinger’s tableau scene endings -- which don’t slow up the action -- make their own undeniable contributions.
Broken Glass may not glue together perfectly, but the sparkle is there nonetheless.
