A Man of No Importance': Finding life, love and truth in the theater

NEW YORK - The theater is a holy place for Alfie Byrne, a middle-aged Dublin bus conductor who spends his off-hours putting on amateur theatricals in the parish hall at St. Imelda's

One suspects it's also a shrine for Terrence McNally, Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty, creators of "A Man of No Importance," the wonderful, heartfelt and emotionally nourishing new musical that Lincoln Center Theater unveiled Thursday at the Mitzi Newhouse.

Alfie is the show's title character, one of more than a dozen lovingly drawn folk who populate the stage of the Newhouse, done up in dingy shades of gray and brown that reflect a working-class section of the Irish capital, circa 1964

"A Man of No Importance," based on a little-known Albert Finney movie, is a small show in terms of spectacle, but it is rich in the necessary ingredient needed to make musicals sing — people about whom you care.

Alfie is a gentle soul, shy and repressed, who comes alive only when he is reciting poetry (usually the florid handiwork of Oscar Wilde) to the regular passengers on his bus route or when he is staging plays at St. Imelda's.

Books for musicals rarely get credit for their success, only their failure. McNally, who did equally fine work on "The Full Monty," lays down a solid foundation here. His adaptation is economically constructed, yet it expands and engages with the help of several outstanding performances and Joe Mantello's deft, imaginative direction that takes advantage of the Newhouse's thrust stage.

The atmospheric score — music by Flaherty, lyrics by Ahrens — is equally lean, affecting yet not showy. Flaherty's melodies are pure and simple, while Ahrens' words rarely call attention to themselves.

The musical is told in flashback, with members of St. Imelda's Players performing "The Tragedy of Alfie Byrne, a Dublin coachman or a Man of No Importance." Alfie is directing Wilde's provocative "Salome," and he needs a leading lady. He finds the young woman, a stranger in town, on his bus route.

He's also trying to persuade Robbie, a handsome young bus driver, to appear in the show. Alfie fancies Robbie, but it is a love that dares not speak its name, and, besides, Robbie's strictly heterosexual inclinations are occupied elsewhere.

Instead, the older man tries to explain his passion for drama and verse to this would-be protege. "We feel poetry here, in our hearts. That's better than understanding with our minds," Alfie counsels the callow Robbie.

It's not easy to carry off this difficult part without slipping into the maudlin, but Roger Rees, Broadway's original "Nicholas Nickleby," is more than up to the role. Rees is an accomplished actor, able to connect with Alfie's innate musicality without having a traditional musical-theater voice.

That type of voice is left to the other members of the fine cast, including Steven Pasquale as the robust Robbie; Sally Murphy (Alfie's Salome), whose lovely soprano glistens through "Princess," one of Ahrens and Flaherty's finest songs; and, particularly, Faith Prince, as Alfie's exasperated unmarried sister.

Prince also provides the evening with some of its best moments of comic relief. If her Irish accent evaporates quickly, she is touching and funny, particularly when paired with Charles Keating, a stage-struck butcher, who is not above doing a little tap routine with a pair of pig's feet.

The other supporting players are equally strong and distinct. Katherine McGrath, Barbara Marineau and Patti Perkins are a collective delight as the dotty female members of Alfie's theater troupe, while Ronn Carroll, Michael McCormick and Martin Moran do equally well as several of their male counterparts.

"What we had was something; what we had was rare," Alfie sings wistfully, celebrating his band of intrepid thespians. In the end, this man of no importance has done something very important indeed. He has managed to instill a love of the theater in a group of ordinary individuals, who were, it turns out, very grateful for the education after all.