Photo, JoAn Marcus The chorus sports orange, toga-like outfits in the new revival of “The Bacchae,” currently playing Central Park’s Delacorte Theater.

By John Soltes / Editor in Chief

NEW YORK (Aug. 27, 2009) — The Public Theater’s new revival of Euripedes’ “The Bacchae,” as part of the free Shakespeare in the Park program, looks sleek and edgy, with a warped set that emerges from the ground and an accompanying original score by the estimable Philip Glass. But the hopes of this classical piece outpace its reality. Everything in this 100-minute interpretation seems like a good idea, but when taken together, it makes for a discordant, uneven meal of carnal desires.

Jonathan Groff of “Spring Awakening” fame plays Dionysus, the ultimate purveyor of guilty pleasures. He’s the god of wine, debauchery and stands as one of the first cult figures of his time, commanding the praise and devotion of a troupe of followers. In other words, he’s naughty, a force to be reckoned with if you doubt his divine roots. For though he swears his father is Zeus and his mother is Semele, Pentheus, Dionysus’ cousin and king of Thebes, doubts his godly origins and unleashes a plot to deride the fanaticism that surrounds his every move.

Groff, a Public veteran, might seem a tough sell to play such a bad-boy sinner. His acting résumé so far includes roles as the good-natured hero, characters free from debauchery. In playing Dionysus, he successfully sheds his previous work, especially in the opening monologue of the play, where he sets the proceedings in motion. He has a way of coming across coyly deceptive, like a sneaky deity who makes people live lives they would normally frown upon. It’s his own sinning that doesn’t sell as well.

There’s never a sense of Dionysus as a believer in his own trades. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t cavort. He talks of being an unleashed spirit, but in no way does director Joanne Akalaitis instigate Groff to showcase his magnitude.

The actor dips his toe in the semi-circular pool at the stage’s edge, but that simple movement is about the extent of his characterization coming to life. Sure, he’s got the ripped jeans and stylish jacket in this modern-dress version, and there’s that wayward lipstick that makes him look like The Joker. But without any physical representation of Dionysus enjoying life outside of speaking Euripedes’ words, he comes across as, well, all talk. How is he supposed to convince his followers? Where is his attraction? Groff speaks the classical translation by Nicholas Rudall well enough, but he’s not convincing with words alone. His is not a cult that people would die to join.

Anthony Mackie, as the frustrated and ultimately doomed Pentheus, fares slightly better. The actor, who is currently starring in the indie hit “The Hurt Locker,” calls it like he sees it, discrediting Dionysus while trying to shake Thebes of its devotion to the supposed demigod. But, again, without a believable portrayal of Dionysus, when Pentheus switches from stalwart critic to passionate co-conspirator, the change feels pushed. This is when Pentheus famously dresses like a woman in a scheme hatched by Dionysus. The suddenness of the character change usually feels a bit more natural, but in this revival, there’s a manufactured feeling to the emotional jump.

The members of the chorus are a troupe of women who parade around the stage in orange, toga-like frocks, singing praise to the god. Their movements and high-pitched singing accompany most of Glass’ score, which comes and goes throughout the piece like an eerie fog. The small orchestra sits stage right, giving exclamation points to the chorus’ intonations and a fluidity to the play that unfortunately the assembled actors can’t match.

The scenic design by John Conklin is inspired, with angled bleachers emerging from the ground and a single thunderbolt illuminated down the center of the stage. Both elements are stark and elevate the play’s action, making scenes play almost like portraits come to life.

The climax and conclusion of “The Bacchae,” where Pentheus’ mother, Agave, is faced with the reality of what her hands have done is still resoundingly pertinent. Joan Macintosh finds just the right amount of crazed emotion, so that when her madness turns over into motherly sorrow, it feels natural, it feels victimizing, it feels like a push into consciousness. In other words, it works — something the rest of this revival unfortunately can’t boast.