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Word had gotten out during previews for the current Broadway revival of The King and I that film actor Ken Watanabe, the titular king, was having quite a difficult time making himself understood in the role. Watanabe is Japanese, a bona fide Asian in a role that is often played by white people in yellow-face, so his presence in the role is something to celebrate, to be sure. But Watanabe was having trouble with his articulation, was working with a dialect coach, and would hopefully be comprehensible come opening night.


Yeah, well, no such luck.

I've performed in The King and I twice (back when awareness about yellow-face wasn't quite where it is today), and I know pretty much every word of the show, but I couldn't understand Watanabe at all. Apparently many people who have seen The King and I had no trouble understanding Watanabe, but I was not one of these people. For me, Watanabe's dialogue was mostly an undifferentiated mass of sound. And the King's big musical solo, "A Puzzlement," a sort of Rodgers and Hammerstein version of a patter song, was utterly incomprehensible. 

However, it's a testament to the quality of the musical itself, and to director Bartlett Sher's gorgeous production, that I wound up utterly enthralled and thoroughly transported, despite the occasional jarring note from Watanabe. 

The production design is sumptuous, including stunning sets by Michael Yeargan and gorgeous costumes by Catherine Zuber, and takes full advantage of the vistas that only the Vivian Beaumont can afford among Broadway theaters.

The theater's thrust auditorium design and deep backstage area allow Sher to situate characters in stunning configurations and meaningful distances from each other. When the King is on his throne, those presenting themselves can be at the lip of the curved stage, creating a tremendous sense of power on the King's part. 

Sher also makes simple but remarkably effective staging choices in numbers that can often be what my students call "park and bark." For instance, Sher has Lun Tha, the emissary who has presented the slave Tuptim to the King as a present from the Prince of Burma, lurking about in the background as Tuptim sings "My Lord and Master." The duet for Lun Tha and Tuptim, "We Kiss in a Shadow," is often staged with the lovers simply facing each other. Sher keeps them circling each other, and peering paranoically around the playing area, bringing them together only for fleeting moments, emphasizing the essence of the song. 

With the single exception of Watanabe, the performances here are impeccable. Young Jon Viktor Corpuz is both imperious and apprehensive as Prince Chulalongkorn, the heir to the throne. Ruthie Ann Miles, a sympathetic Imelda Marcos in Here Lies Love, is an utter revelation as Lady Thiang, the King's head wife. Miles's take on Thiang is smoldering and laser-sharp, and her "Something Wonderful" was pure magic. 

First among equals in the cast is the sublime Kelli O'Hara as Anna. O'Hara is an understated marvel, giving Anna the very reserve and introspection that so many Annas lack. It's a testament to her professionalism that she can manage such a rich, subtle performance opposite such a distracting co-star. She was even able to save the day when Watanabe stepped on a significant portion of her lines in the crucial whipping scene in the second act. Thankfully, Kelli O'Hara, pro that she is, had the presence of mind to go back and recover some very crucial dialogue that Watanabe had skipped. 

Seriously, can we please give this woman a Tony, already? I mean, the range on this woman, from a lovestruck waif in The Light in the Piazza, to the hard-as-nails Babe in The Pajama Game, to the burgeoning Francesca in The Bridges of Madison County. And here she proves herself in one of the most iconic female roles in the canon. O'Hara's "Getting to Know You" had me grinning like an idiot, and her "Shall I Tell You What I Think of You" was a model of finding the levels and the subtext in a Rodgers and Hammerstein soliloquy. O'Hara's performance isn't quite as sexually charged as that of Donna Murphy in the 1996 revival, but, in truth, it's hard to imagine anyone but Murphy taking the role that far in that direction.  

On a historical note, I was rather surprised to see that this production of The King and I included the song "Western People Funny," a song that hasn't been performed on Broadway in 30 years. I use this song as an example for my students of the difference between noble intent and faulty execution. The song is sung by Lady Thiang as she and the wives get dressed in Western garb for the celebration the King is having for the visiting English delegation. Anna has the women in hoop skirts and tight shoes, and Lady Thiang comments wryly, "To prove we're not barbarians, they dress up up like savages."

Clearly, Rodgers and Hammerstein intended the song to be a comment on Western cultural imperialism, but in performance it comes off condescending. The pidgin dialect of the lyric, reflected clearly in the title, combined with the childish, you should please pardon the expression, "chinky" music, reveals that, despite their heartfelt impetus for writing the song, these men were nonetheless products of their time. (Hey, this was 65 years ago, right?) 

Quibbles aside, by the final curtain of this The King and I, I was a sobbing, sniveling mess, transported by the power of the story, the magnificence of the score, the near-perfect cast, and the resplendent presentation that the production staff have provided. That I can say that, despite Watanabe's distracting performance, is a testament to the quality of the piece itself. The King and I can survive even Ken Watanabe.