The Collaboration Broadway Reviews

Onstage, though, “The Collaboration” feels emptily formulaic — less like an insider’s view of its famous subjects’ lives than a kind of biographical tourism that gets into serious gawking in its second half. It doesn’t bring us any insight into whatever closeness Warhol and Basquiat had.

Directed by Kwame Kwei-Armah and inspired by the real life 1984 painting collaboration of the aging (at least in terms of artistic relevance) Warhol and the soaring Basquiat – a project presented so much more convincingly and movingly in the 1996 film Basquiat, starring Jeffrey Wright and, in the definitive performance of Warhol, David Bowie, who haunts this play like a shadow – The Collaboration is an oddly lifeless endeavor, a failure in capturing even a moment of simple artistic inspiration much less the ignition of of collaborative genius.

It’s hard to call this gushing fountain of clever talk a play. There’s no dramatic shape to it: No plot, no event, no conflict, no danger. But there are two richly drawn characters on stage with plenty to say for themselves.

The urgency of the second act, and the energetic peaks in the men’s performances—particularly Pope’s—give The Collaboration some much-needed electricity, but the stilted staging of the play leaks power and focus from a show which determinedly keeps its protagonists a mystery.

The Collaboration abruptly turns plot heavy in the second act — early on, Krysta Rodriguez, playing a ex-girlfriend of Basquiat’s, storms in, announces “I need the money to make rent and have an abortion,” and throws a purse for emphasis, a choice I just have to respect. But eventually it makes its way toward the idea that being reduced to a salable art brand is crushing both these men. That’s something Warhol embraced in his own art-making, but as theater, it’s as two-dimensional as a silk screen. As much as it gestures toward depth, the play’s selling the audience these same flattened versions of Warhol and Basquiat. Looking at the faux Marilyn Monroe prints behind the actors, you start to ponder if the performances themselves are achieving anything much different. Buy a ticket and you can get the contours of something familiar and the most basic coloring of the details.

But did the playwright need to make the characters spell out their differences so explicitly? Is that the way these two visual artists would actually speak to one another? Why do so many of the supposed aperçus about art in this play sound canned, at best the kind of practiced lines that art stars say to journalists to sound outrageous? These are the sort of questions that arise here and there during “The Collaboration,” which has a script that can feel surprisingly clunky, in both moments of exposition and in the overall plot, which is largely predictable, even as the actors somehow redeem it.

Though the writing is a letdown, The Collaboration nonetheless proves entertaining, thanks to the colorful figures at its center and the superb acting. Bettany had the harder assignment of not caricaturing Warhol, even though by that point Warhol had already become a caricature of himself. He handles the task beautifully, avoiding excessively overt imitation and somehow managing to convey Warhol’s underlying Andrew Warhola. Pope ­— as much a star on the rise as the character he’s portraying, thanks to his Tony-nominated work in Choir Boy and Ain’t Too Proud and his acclaimed starring role in the film The Inspection — delivers a rivetingly physical, live-wire turn, exuding restless energy and speaking in a high-pitched voice that sounds like Michael Jackson. The two actors’ mesmerizing turns, soon to be repeated in a film adaptation of the play, are, as the old saying goes, worth the price of admission alone.

Though apparently more knowledgeable about Warhol—aren’t we all?—McCarten attempts to make the Basquiat character a vessel for his bogus rants against commercialism and the soullessness of modern art, having the younger artist press against his elder’s silkscreens and logo-ridden works. Each character is as thin as a Campbell’s soup label, but the insistence to ask these rote questions, then cop out of answering any when they turn to why the street artist himself is so comfortable with his funds is frustrating. And poor Pope, a multitalented actor here strangled under insufferable characterization, heightened by Kwame Kwei-Armah’s juvenile direction. Despite Pope’s impressive voicework, the writer and director’s Basquiat is conceived in the tired Cool Young Artist mold, ashing his joint in Warhol’s coffee cup before going Artist As Tweaker On The Spectrum when freaking out to jazz records, and staring, slack-jawed, into space—his otherworldly artistic visions ostensibly taking him out of this realm.

Sadly, the most interesting person on the Friedman stage is the energetic DJ who spins a Studio 54-worthy 1980s playlist before each act. I’m not sure I’ve ever recommended this plan before, but if you can, “second act” the intermission and leave before the play resumes. It’s the only way you’ll leave the theater satisfied.

With accurate-looking tufts of dreaded hair, Jeremy Pope (a two-time Tony nominee who’s currently scoring in the gritty film The Inspection) is an aptly moody and haunted Basquiat, full of attitude and drive. As Warhol, Bettany (WandaVision) seems too energetic to me and sometimes comes off more like a handsome surfer dude than a wry visionary, but his interpretation is interesting and he really nails Andy’s constant sense of unease. Erik Jensen delivers as the manipulative Bruno and Krysta Rodriguez is excellent as Maya, an ex-girlfriend of Basquiat’s who sweeps in to demand money for rent and an abortion, while her limo waits outside.