Without a male stripper in sight, "Jane Eyre," the new show by John Caird and Paul Gordon that just opened at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre, delivers the biggest thrill of any Broadway musical this season. Standing out from a crowd of arch, overblown shows that cater to the lowest common denominator with unveiled cynicism, "Jane Eyre," like its heroine, shines with rare sensibility. This is a musical for grownups: spare, somber and rich, with an absorbing story, a lyrical score and an exhilarating performance by its star, Marla Schaffel.
I admit, I feared the worst when I first heard about "Jane Eyre," which originated at California's La Jolla Playhouse. Having loved Charlotte Bronte's novel since I first read it as a teen, I wasn't eager to see the Yorkshire moors come alive with the sound of music, or to watch the austere Jane hike up her hoop skirts and trip the light fantastic with a brooding yet buff Mr. Rochester. Although this central romance is the least successful aspect of their "Jane Eyre," the show's creators come closer than anyone could have imagined to capturing the spirit -- and the spirituality -- of this dark Cinderella story. Mr. Caird, who co-directed "Jane Eyre" with Scott Schwartz, wrote the book (and some of the lyrics); Mr. Gordon wrote the score. They have managed to distill a bulky Victorian novel of some 500 pages into a show that is intimate, agile and fast-moving (at close to three hours, no less). What's more, they find within it a story that lends itself surprisingly well to music.
As most high-school seniors already know, "Jane Eyre" is the story of a plain, feisty orphan who survives a horrific childhood to become the governess -- and ultimately, the mistress -- of Thornfield Hall, a sumptuously gloomy manor owned by the saturnine Edward Rochester. For a story that comes so freighted with English Lit 101 baggage, the musical begins quietly, without fanfare or fuss. On a dark stage, Ms. Schaffel, clad in a black gown, walks forward and declares, "My name is Jane Eyre. My story begins, gentle audience, a long age ago, in the dark and lonely attic of Gateshead Hall." The language is ornate -- that "gentle audience" salute faintly cringe-inducing -- but the scene that unfolds onstage is eloquently simple.
As Jane describes her loveless childhood as an orphan in her aunt's home, a little girl clambers through a trap door to the attic, clutching a copy of "Bewick's Book of British Birds" and her rag doll. This is young Jane, and she's played by Lisa Musser, whose pinched features and fierce stare are a refreshing alternative to the standard-issue cutesiness of most Broadway kids. In short order, Jane's brutish cousin, John (Lee Zarrett), destroys the treasured book and accuses her of the crime, inspiring her cruel aunt, Mrs. Reed (Gina Ferrall), to send her away to the Lowood School for orphan girls. The girls trudge in a circle like chained prisoners under the icy gaze of Lowood's overseer, Mr. Brocklehurst (Don Richard). "When a girl can't be saved," he sings, "God hears her plea/But he leaves her soul to me." Like so many of the actors in this fine cast, Mr. Richards brings a Dickensian vividness to the small role of this sneering redeemer with pallid skin and mutton-chop whiskers.
"Jane Eyre" has no socko-boffo production numbers, and apart from the odd parlor dance, no choreography to speak of. Instead, the characters move easily in and out of song, interweaving spoken lines with sung lyrics. A group of people in funereal black clothing -- the ghosts of Jane's dead family, perhaps -- provides an occasional chorus. Mr. Gordon's music rarely strains for uplift but delivers it just the same in numbers like "Forgiveness," in which Helen, Jane's saintly friend at Lowood (beautifully played by Jayne Paterson) urges, "Forgiveness/Of those you hate/Will be your highest reward." In another context, those lyrics might sound cloying and false, but they articulate one of this show's biggest themes, and Ms. Paterson infuses them with unclouded sincerity.
One scene flows fluidly into the next, on a shadowy stage that is largely left bare. Instead of lavish sets, designer John Napier often uses just a single prop -- a window, a blackboard, a branch of withered leaves -- to set the scene, paired with photographic images that are projected onto scrims and moving panels. It's an elliptical, evocative approach that makes you feel as though you're being drawn into Jane's memories; it also solves the vast logistical problems of staging a detailed novel like "Jane Eyre." The less-is-more approach is equally effective when the scene shifts to the gothic Thornfield Hall. Touring the manse's unused rooms with Thornfield's housekeeper, Jane walks past shrouded furniture and a huge gilt-framed portrait covered in silk. The house seems haunted even before we hear that first burst of sinister laughter from the mysterious denizen of Thornfield's attic.
But all this would fall flat if the character of Jane herself was not inhabited with such stirring conviction by Ms. Schaffel. Her hair looped back severely over her earlobes, her posture erect, she brings a coiled emotional energy to the role. She has a diva-sized voice, warm and expressive, but she never sullies her performance with diva flourishes. Even when Jane falls head over heels for Rochester (James Barbour), Ms. Schaffel projects that crucial air of restraint. She carries the show in song and in spirit. A good thing, too, because Mr. Barbour's oafish Rochester just isn't up to the job. The lord of Thornfield is supposed to be harsh, inscrutable and magnetic. Mr. Barbour just seems luggish and unshampooed. He stomps about the stage hollering at the help and swigging claret from the bottle, his lank hair hanging in his eyes. His lusterless, low-watt love scenes with Jane are the show's biggest disappointment.
It's a rare case of miscasting. Mary Stout gives a vibrant, funny performance as Thornfield's hearing-impaired housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, while Bruce Dow makes a shambolic butler, clapping a dishevelled peruke on his head whenever he's required by the lordship. And Elizabeth DeGrazia is brittle, birdlike and faintly despicable as Blanche Ingram, Jane's rival for Rochester's affections. As for the madwoman in the attic -- Rochester's murderous, deranged first wife, Bertha -- Marguerite MacIntyre is a wraithlike, avenging figure in a tattered white wedding gown. I only wish the production had made more of her.
In one of the show's most haunting scenes, Bertha cradles a rag doll while Jane, aghast, looks on. The encounter could so easily have been overworked -- instead, it sends out tiny shock waves. The show's creators leave it to us to recall the opening scene of young Jane hiding in the attic with her doll and to see, however fleetingly, these two women as shadows of one another. In an era of big, dumb musicals that insist on connecting all the dots, "Jane Eyre" does the unexpected: It trusts our intelligence.
