Review: Off-Broadway Revival of God of Carnage Exposes a Mediocre Hit

God of Carnage is one of the most celebrated Broadway plays of the last two decades: It won the 2009 Tony for Best Play and ran for 476 performances — an impressive achievement for any non-musical drama, especially one being presented in translation. Yasmina Reza originally wrote the script in French, and Sir Christopher Hampton translated it for the 2008 London run, further updating it in 2009 for Broadway audiences who couldn’t possibly comprehend the bourgeoisie beyond our borders: “Alain” became “Alan,” “Véronique” became “Veronica,” and they were all transported from Paris’s 14th arrondissement to Cobble Hill, Brooklyn.

You might expect the first off-Broadway revival, now being presented by Theater Breaking Through Barriers (TBTB) at Theatre Row, to be a sure bet — rekindling old memories for those who saw the Broadway run and initiating those (like me) who did not into the cult of carnage. Unfortunately, this uneven production reveals a mediocre drama that has been lazily translated — which is what God of Carnage always was.

The premise is promising: Michael (Gabe Fazio) and Veronica Novak (Christiane Noll) have invited to their home Alan (David Burtka) and Annette Raleigh (Carey Cox) to discuss an altercation in which the latter couple’s 11-year-old son (Benjamin) beat the former’s (Henry) with a stick, breaking two of his teeth. Veronica, an art history writer who specializes in East Africa, believes that the two boys can resolve their differences in a civilized manner. Michael supports her, against his instincts. Annette is initially receptive, but later reveals that Henry called Benjamin a “snitch,” arguing, “an insult is also a kind of assault.” And Alan, who would rather be back at his law office defending pharma companies and war criminals, flatly contends that his son is an unrepentant “savage.” There’s nothing more to do but settle financially and limit liability.

Reza would seem to have crafted a prescient microcosm of Western middle-class society, with the #resistance mom facing down the amoral lawyer, as the small businessman (that’s Michael) attempts to compromise, and the wealth manager (that’s Annette) vomits on a coffee table laden with priceless art books. (What kind of parents keep such things lying around?) But this is merely sociological patina on an old type of drama: the drinking-and-shouting-in-the-living-room play (why Michael offers everyone a round of rum after they’ve decided they hate one another is never satisfyingly explained). Reza sets down some tantalizing breadcrumbs about the kids (we learn that Henry is in a “gang”) only to frustratingly abandon them as the four parents indulge in their own personal conflicts, hurtling toward the unhinged conclusion that one suspects is this play’s raison d’être.

The fundamental problems of the script are compounded by Hampton’s stiff translation, which is barely a step above Google. Alan refers to Veronica as “Madam,” but later deploys the slang term “shitcanned” as if to compensate for his earlier formality. “On the…opposite,” Burtka flubbed the night I attended, instinctively rejecting the scripted line (“On the contrary”) in the mouth of his boorish Brooklyn attorney (a sardonic “au contraire” would have been preferable).

All four actors stumble over lines throughout the evening, something made painfully clear by the supertitles projected onto the upstage wall (TBTB is a company admirably committed to accessibility for the disabled, which means that actors are unable to fudge).

Other conspicuously French things happen: The four characters extensively debate the difference between cake and tart as they munch clafouti (not even the most committed member of the Park Slope Food Coop would dare). And as they become drunker, they bicker about the difference between the sexes with Alan lecturing Veronica, “What we like about women is sensuality, wildness, hormones.” It’s as if Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir have invited over some friends for a ménage à quatre and this is their bizarre verbal foreplay.

This is something great actors operating under a shrewd director can overcome, dazzling the audience with bold choices and big performances, as apparently happened in 2009 (all four actors were nominated for Tonys and Marcia Gay Harden won, as did director Matthew Warchus).

Unfortunately, Nicholas Viselli’s production is awkwardly staged and poorly paced, so the prevailing reaction from the audience is silence with a smattering of chuckles. There is also a fair amount of avoidable sloppiness: “Now I’m starting to feel nauseous,” Veronica groans, “Where’s the pan?” And it’s on the coffee table in front of her face, where Annette left it.

The four actors give serviceable performances, of which Fazio’s is the most natural. Cox delivers a particularly mewling Annette, while Noll’s rage is genuinely fearsome. Burtka’s greatest contribution is a shit-eating grin in response to the other characters’ distress. When someone finally wipes it off him, it is satisfying.

Olivia V. Hern’s color-coordinated costumes (grays for the Novaks, peach accents for the Raleighs) visually pair the couples, although a preshow recording in which the characters describe themselves for the blind while sniping at one another undermines Reza’s dramaturgical burlesque (she wants us to think the couples are solid before she breaks them apart). It also sounds like it was recorded in a car on the way to the theater (sound design by Eric Nightengale). Bert Scott’s set is smushed downstage, giving Viselli little room to maneuver. It’s not a great production.

But then again, God of Carnage is not a great play. Reza quickly abandons whatever stakes she establishes in pursuit of popcorn-shoveling chaos. I suspect this is the play that started the irritating trend of unearned pandemonium, currently featured on Broadway in The Thanksgiving Play. Fourteen years later, we can recognize that mistake.