A Canine Mystery, Solved with Flair

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time at the Barrymore Theatre

Ian Barford (L) and Alex Sharp in The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time.

            It is the especial and sacred responsibility of a critic, particularly this early in the season, to report with great honesty and accuracy of vision after having seen a show so promising and beautiful in its conception that it stands a good chance of becoming a classic.  Now I am faced with just such a situation in that marvelous British transfer, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, based on the equally excellent book by Mark Haddon and a production of the inexhaustibly virtuosic National Theater (and, significantly, their golden girl directress, Marianne Elliot—but more on her later).  This production of the new and noteworthy play (which originally opened on the West End in 2012 and is still going strong there) is something near perfect, a work of art that reminds us that the world, loud and confusing though it may be for some, is full of beautiful, wonderful things.

            In the play, as in the book, young Christopher Francis Boone, a brilliant fifteen-year-old whose unique symptoms fall somewhere on the autism spectrum, discovers his neighbor’s dog dead in her garden and resolves to find the beast’s killer, just as the heroes of his favorite murder mysteries might.  Along the way, we are introduced to the perspective of an infinitely relatable character who makes the rest of the world look like a pack of cruel, coarse fools.  His hopes, dreams, and disillusionments are spilled out across the gorgeous stage (designed by the Olivier Award winner Bunny Christie) by virtue of the magnificent stagecraft of Ms. Elliot, who, as anyone who has seen this production or her equally innovative War Horse can attest, is a genius in her own time.

            Great theatrical minds stand behind Ms. Elliot, including Ms. Christie, lighting designer Paule Constable, video designer Finn Ross, and spectacular choreographers Scott Graham and Steven Hoggett.  Thanks in part to these minds, who have in this point in their careers left in their wake resumes formidable enough to stop the hardiest theater veteran in his tracks, Ms. Elliot achieves perhaps the most important work of theatrical dream-weaving of the past quarter-century.  Her moments of inspiration are innumerable, and are not to be described here for fear of ruining the glimpse of pure stage Nirvana accorded to anyone who visits the Barrymore this season.  Suffice it to say that the world she has created for Christopher is unlike anything I have ever seen, a dream-world where the laws of physics and society do not apply, a world that cements the audience firmly in the surprisingly welcoming environment of Christopher’s inner mind.  It is a world guided by logic that collapses when confronted with the confusing or the unknowable, and populated by eternally mystical characters whose constant shouting and overly emotional doings we see through Christopher’s eyes.  Why are they so loud?  What is the purpose of all the sound and fury?  The audience understands only Christopher, and so grows to love him.

            And I am convinced only now, after having first read Mr. Haddon’s book and reading about Luke Treadaway playing the part in London, that there is only one man who was definitively born to play Christopher Boone, and will find no match in the long and fruitful life this play is sure to enjoy.  His name is Alex Sharp, he is in his fourth year at Julliard, and his is one of the greatest performances I have yet had the deep, redefining pleasure of coming across.  He is Christopher.  His blood is Boone blood; his face and his mind pulsate with the energy of that unstoppable boy genius.  In this still-young season he is a shoo-in for the Best Actor in a Play Tony—I cannot imagine a performance that might surpass his—and for this among many other reasons I will be following his surely-long career with great interest.  If you might see its conception, be aware of the enormity and importance of this play in the history of acting.

            The script, by Simon Stephens, is wisely mostly composed of wide swaths of Mr. Haddon’s captivating prose, but veers occasionally into the absurd or the cruelly disappointing, as in the second act when it becomes painfully self-referential.  When Christopher recounts his story to his refined schoolteacher Siobhan (the adequate Francesca Faridany), and she replies, “I know.  We made it into a play,” it almost made me physically ill.  And, rather than end with the joyfully optimistic and uplifting concluding words of Mr. Haddon’s book, “…and that means I can do anything,” which brought Christopher’s arc to a satisfactory end, Mr. Stephens’ play ends with Christopher asking Siobhan, “I can do anything… Right?” and receiving no response.  This left a bit of an unnecessary pit in my stomach, especially given that the storyline of both the book and the play had led the audience to expect a slightly happier ending.

            Luckily a stellar post-curtain call scene reinvigorates and ends the show right.  I won’t give this away, either, but it involves—no surprise—Mr. Sharp, alone onstage, and some more wonderful work by Ms. Elliot and her team.  When it works, it works.