Key Takeaways
- “Fallen Angels” is a 1928 Noël Coward farce revived at Broadway’s Todd Haimes Theatre, starring Rose Byrne and Kelli O’Hara as two bored, upper‑crust English wives who act on suppressed lust when a charming Frenchman visits.
- The comedy’s engine is the clash between the characters’ genteel façades and their raucous, alcohol‑fueled scheming, delivering rapid‑fire wit, physical slapstick, and surprisingly layered performances.
- Byrne and O’Hara shine with razor‑sharp timing, chemistry, and a blend of comic bravado and unexpected emotional depth; their portrayals anchor the production more than the script itself.
- Supporting turn by Tracee Chimo as the maid Saunders offers a grounded counterpoint, while the husbands are deliberately portrayed as comic buffoons, highlighting the play’s satirical take on gender dynamics.
- Scott Ellis’s direction, Jeff Mahshie’s Roaring‑Twenties costumes, and David Rockwell’s Art Deco set create a stylish, brisk 90‑minute romp that balances frivolity with a keen sense of pace, proving Coward’s early work can feel both period‑specific and strikingly modern.
Summary
The revival of Noël Coward’s “Fallen Angels” at the newly reopened Todd Haimes Theater bursts with the kind of suppressed, upper‑class lust that fuels farce. Rose Byrne as Jane Banbury and Kelli O’Hara as Julia Sterroll prowl a luxurious 1928 apartment, clutching ever‑lengthening cigarette holders while they confess, with a blasé sigh, that they are “both ripe for a lapse.” Their husbands are off on a golf trip, leaving the wives free to indulge in drink, gossip, and the tantalizing prospect of rekindling old flames with the visiting Frenchman Maurice (Mark Consuelos), whose name they pronounce with exaggerated emphasis on the “More.”
Though the play premiered a century ago and scandalized contemporary censors for its frank talk of premarital sex, its moralizing now feels quaint. What endures is Coward’s razor‑sharp dialogue and the frantic energy of two women navigating the thin line between propriety and desire. Director Scott Ellis leans into this tension, allowing the comedy to start at a breakneck pace before slowing for the languid, drunken vignettes where Byrne and O’Hara’s chemistry truly ignites.
Byrne’s Jane is a study in controlled chaos. Known for her comic turns in films like Bridesmaids and Spy, she brings a graceful beauty to the role, yet beneath the poise lies a simmering violence that surfaces in a slurred, aggressive tirade during the play’s Extended drunk scene. Her performance reveals a desperation and neediness that erupts unexpectedly, making her unraveling both hilarious and oddly poignant. O’Hara’s Julia, by contrast, is the picture of dry pragmatism—she tells her husband, Fred (Aasif Mandvi), they are no longer “in love” with offhanded ease, then later dismisses the conversation as a harmless “psychological romp.” When Fred calls her “unhinged,” she retorts, “I’m perfectly hinged,” a line that underscores her comic resilience while hinting at the brittleness of her composure.
The duo’s rapport is the production’s heart. They trade insults with a rat‑a‑tat rhythm—“I should be following her around and picking up all the names she dropped”—and share physical jokes that feel choreographed yet spontaneous, such as simultaneously dropping suitcases and fluttering fingers at each other like dueling pianists. Their friendship, fraught with jealousy and mutual admiration, becomes both the plot’s engine and its thematic core, illustrating how Coward’s wit can simultaneously mock and celebrate female solidarity.
Tracee Chimo’s maid, Saunders, offers a vital foil. Her odd cackles and the absurd effort she puts into fluffing a pillow provide grounding moments of levity, especially when her entrance causes the wives to hastily pivot from adulterous chatter to innocuous small Talk. The husbands, meanwhile, are deliberately rendered as comic foils: Mandvi’s Fred Sterroll is a pompous bore whose name invites a silent pun on “sterile,” while Christopher Fitzgerald’s Willy Banbury is a lovable, puppy‑dog‑ish buffoon. Their presence reinforces the play’s satire of a patriarchal class that is both clueless and comically benign.
Visually, the production is a treat. Jeff Mahshie’s costumes glitter with Roaring‑Twenties flair—elongated hats, beaded gloves, and flowing gowns that underscore the characters’ pretensions of sophistication. David Rockwell’s Art Deco set, dominated by a sweeping staircase and a glittering chandelier, gives the actors ample vertical space for pratfalls and elegant descents, while also creating an intimate, salon‑like atmosphere that feels both oppressive and inviting.
Crucially, Ellis’s staging nails the comedy’s rhythm. The show opens with brisk, snappy banter, then deliberately eases into the prolonged, boozy interludes where Byrne and O’Hara’s vulnerability can surface. This pacing allows the audience to savor the physical comedy—the near‑pratfalls, the exaggerated hairdos, the languid lounge‑chair slides—without losing the narrative thrust. At ninety minutes, “Fallen Angels” feels just long enough to indulge in its frolicsome escapism while short enough to leave the audience energized rather than exhausted.
In a Broadway landscape where comedy has sometimes felt scarce, this revival offers a robust reminder that farce, when powered by stellar performances and a keen eye for period detail, can deliver both immediate laughter and a subtle commentary on the timeless tug between societal expectation and personal desire. For anyone seeking pure, unadulterated fun with a dash of incisive wit, “Fallen Angels” is an easy recommendation.