Amadeus

Peter Shaffer’s 1979 dark comedy may be middle-named for Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and narrated by rival-in-his-own-mind Antonio Salieri, but the play isn’t really about either composer. Instead, it’s a wry, unexpectedly moving treatise on genius, jealousy and justice. To wit: Where’s the justice in recognizing mediocrity in the worthy (i.e., ourselves, obviously) and genius in the undeserving (everybody else)?

Salieri, the favored court composer, sees (or, more accurately, hears) in Mozart’s work what will ultimately endure, even as Mozart undercuts himself with his gaucheness, self-confidence and inability to play the favor-seeking games of the court. Occasionally, Shaffer comes close to succumbing to his own theatricality. Those familiar with only the heavily revised film version may be taken aback by the playwright’s inattention to an admonition in his own script, warning against “music that smells like music”: With Salieri’s direct addresses to the audience and self-conscious repetition of themes, Amadeus sometimes resembles theater that smells like theater. But Griffin’s well-cast revival, while visually extravagant, sticks close to the emotional core.

Though he may be better suited as Salieri ten years from now, Sella is a technically proficient actor whose mechanisms don’t become clear until well after we’ve left the theater. But it’s Sublett, as Mozart, who astonishes. Eschewing imitation of Tim Curry in the Broadway premiere or Tom Hulce in the film, Sublett portrays Mozart not as a manic caricature but a damaged child prodigy, disdainful of societal strictures but still looking for validation. Remarkably, as Shaffer’s play comes to a close, we forget where our sympathies lie; we’re pretty sure that’s justice in the end.