Good news for narcissists: The quest for eternal youth has easily become a New York Times–worthy trend, thanks to a spate of plays and movies reflecting a rabid obsession with staying young and lifted. Last year’s award-winning horror film The Substance had the titular stuff keeping show biz women youthful and employed, while the current Broadway musical version of the 1992 movie Death Becomes Her centers on a revivifying mystical potion that can even outdo the Substance; it’s forever. Meanwhile, the hit Broadway revival of Sunset Blvd., about aging diva Norma Desmond’s desperation to remain relevant at any cost, has been reimagined with a spare set, large video screens, and a younger-seeming Norma, so she’s already won half the battle.
And now comes The Picture of Dorian Gray — a stage version of the ultimate sell-your-soul-for-longevity tale, by Oscar Wilde. Dorian is a wealthy young man who makes a Faustian arrangement with an artist friend so he can clutch gracelessly at eternal youth. Desperate to enjoy a lifetime of pure hedonism, he cuts a deal whereby his portrait will age but he won’t. We don’t see the evolving portrait in the show, but savvy literati know that it doesn’t just age, it grotesquely reflects Dorian’s sins, one by one, via patches of rotting flesh. Be careful what you wish for — this painting has no resale value!
The gay wit’s scandalous 1891 novel was called immoral at the time, but of course it’s about immorality, to the point where Victorian prudes should have welcomed it with open talons. In this version, the story has been anachronized and become loaded with even more multimedia shtick than Sunset Blvd. One actor plays all 26 characters, some in person and some in prerecorded videos, and since she’s female — Australian actor Sarah Snook (“Shiv” in Succession) — the production tangentially fits in with the trend of ladies lusting for a wrinkle-free life.
While a lot of the script is faithful to Wilde, new presentational touches sprinkle in everything from phone filters to Botox.
I usually loathe one-person shows — crazy me, I like to see people interacting — though I appreciate that these shows have become events, with audiences lining up to see if the actor is up to the task. When they are, it’s a chance for those performers to show off big-time, flaunting their incredible range in a way that makes a one-person show feel like the ultimate actor’s reel. And with Snook doing scenes opposite videos of herself as other characters, people basically are interacting.
Fortunately, here the gimmick suits the flashy material, and also maintains a playful spirit that makes the production’s technical machinery seem more impressive than oppressive. Adapted and directed by Kip Williams, who developed it with the Sydney Theatre Company, this Dorian Gray looks smashing — multiple large HD images of Snook float around as she’s standing upstage, being shot by a crew for one more visage, which we see live — and is performed by the actor to the absolute hilt. Each of her characterizations is full-blown and florid — including Sybil Vane, the bubble-headed actress who kills herself due to Dorian’s heartlessness — and so are her outfits, which include floral blouses and woolly collars, topped by weird ties and a pronounced blond pompadour. (Marg Horwell did the period-straddling costumes and scenic design.) Snook doesn’t play up the dandy aspect; she’s already female, after all. She even once grabs at her crotch in macho fashion, to signal “We’re having fun with gender tropes here,” sometimes indulging in other unexpected business that keeps this far from being a CliffsNotes version. At times, her characters are addressing other characters, then will quickly throw a glance semi-sideways, as if to signal their exasperation to the audience. She’ll be enacting a conversation between besotted artist Basil Hallward and debauched aristocrat Lord Henry Wotton, then switch between the two simply by whether she’s gesturing with a paintbrush or a cigarette. As Dorian — live up there onstage — she starts to narrate a passage, but the enormous pre-recorded video of her begins to recite the same thing behind her. “I can do this bit,” says the living Dorian, winning the tussle over the canned one.
While a lot of the script is faithful to Wilde, new presentational touches sprinkle in everything from phone filters to Botox, all commenting on the fact that narcissism is more prevalent — and emptier — than ever. Along the way we have Dorian aiming a cell phone at his gigantic video image and urging “Smile”; an opium-den scene backed by Donna Summers’s thumping “I Feel Love”; and, best of all, Snook/Gray erupting into an out-of-the-blue lip synch of the exultant song “Gorgeous,” from the 1966 musical The Apple Tree (“Look at me, I am gorgeous / I am absolutely gorgeous … Oh, look at the way all of the parts fit together”).
Snook is a fireball of an actress, reminiscent at times of past British stage stars like Beryl Reid and Janet McTeer. A fine drag king, she is as fearless as she is technically precise, and can even send chills when reminding, “I have never searched for happiness. I have searched for pleasure.” Basically costarring opposite David Bergman’s video design, she does tremendous work, especially in the climactic sequence that has her frantically trying to escape justice. (By this point, gorgeous Dorian has proven himself all too capable of murder.) But next time — yes, I’ve now done a complete 180 on the one-person thing — I’d like to see just her alone and unfettered up there. I know she can do it. ❖
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Music Box Theatre
239 West 45th Street
Michael Musto has written for the Voice since 1984, best known for his outspoken column “La Dolce Musto.” He has penned four books and is streaming in docs on Netflix, Hulu, Vice, and Showtime.