The Broadway Theatre Review: Rose Byrne and Kelli O’Hara turn Noël Coward’s comedy into a showcase of meticulously controlled comic intoxication
By Ross
Champagne is a dangerous thing when it becomes the evening’s medicine for nerves. And inside that well-appointed London flat, it is administered generously in Fallen Angels as it unfolds quite brilliantly at the Todd Haimes Theatre. It’s an intoxicating formula, tracking the careful calibration of each sip, each shift in posture, each incremental surrender to the tonic. In those details, this revival finds its most undeniable pleasure, rooted in performance rather than in the structure surrounding it.
This Roundabout Theatre Company staging of Noël Coward’s 1925 comedy arrives well packaged in a newly condensed form, streamlined for consumption into a single ninety-minute act. The premise remains deliciously simple. Julia Sterroll and Jane Banbury, lifelong friends now settled into comfortable marriages, find themselves alone for the day as their husbands depart on a golf trip. In that absence, prompted by the arrival of two picture postcards, conversation turns toward passion and past history, specifically a shared former lover who is suddenly on his way to London for a visit. What begins first as an anxious need to escape, then flips into playful recollection, quickly spirals into excited anticipation layered with fear and a heap of nerves that demand settling. The obvious remedy is to partake in an evening fueled by alcohol, resulting in confession and unraveling composure.
At the center of it all are Rose Byrne and Kelli O’Hara, whose performances carry the production with remarkable control and clarity. Byrne (“If I Had legs I’d Kick You“), in particular, delivers a masterclass in staged panic and intoxication, mapping out her descent with an exactness that is both technically superb and wildly funny. Each adjustment in balance, each delayed reaction, each carefully misplaced gesture and lost shoe land with intention. O’Hara (The Shed’s This World of Tomorrow) meets that energy with a broader, more outwardly performative approach, leaning into the theatricality of the pratfall and chasing the laugh with bodily confidence. Together, they create a dynamic that sustains the production’s momentum, especially as the evening tips fully into physical comedy.
That emphasis on movement over language becomes increasingly clear as the play progresses. Coward’s wit remains present, surfacing in sharp, well-placed lines, but it is not the dominant force it was in the production I saw, delivered in full, at the Menier Chocolate Factory only five months ago. Instead, the production leans into the spectacle of disarray, with Julia and Jane sprawling across furniture, tumbling through the space, and embracing the chaos of their own making. The extended sequence of drunken escalation becomes this adaptation’s focal point, a sustained display of comic timing and physical commitment that feels carefully engineered to showcase the strengths of its leading duo.
Around them, the supporting cast provides texture, though often in broader strokes. Tracee Chimo (Broadway’s Noises Off) makes a strong impression as Saunders, the ever-capable maid whose adoration by O’Hara’s Julia thins as the evening wears on. For Julia, her presence starts to shift from efficient to increasingly exasperated, adding a welcome layer of friction and frenzy. Mark Consuelos (Off-Broadway’s An Oak Tree) arrives late as Maurice, the much-discussed figure whose entrance is meant to ignite the final stretch. Although his role remains brief and stylized, it is played in a heightened, almost cartoonish tone shared by the other supporting performances. Christopher Fitzgerald (Broadway’s Company) and Aasif Mandvi (Broadway’s Brigadoon) round out the ensemble as the husbands, their presence serving more as a framing device than as a central emotional force within the action.
The production offers a polished and inviting world with its pastel Art Deco interior. The design by David Rockwell (Broadway’s Pirates!) expertly situates the action within an elegant London drawing room, one that reflects both taste and social expectation. Jeff Mahshie’s costumes embrace the glamour of the period, dressing the characters in sharp, playful silhouettes that support the tone of the piece. The overall design, supported by the strong sound design by John Gromada (Broadway’s Birthday Candles) and lighting by Kenneth Posner (RT’s Doubt), presents a space that feels curated and controlled, even as the behaviour within it steadily unravels.
Directed by Scott Ellis (Broadway’s Take Me Out), the production maintains a brisk pace, moving efficiently through its revised structure. The decision to condense the original three-act play into a continuous ninety-minute performance places greater emphasis on immediacy, keeping the energy sustained while narrowing the narrative’s breathing room. The result is a version of Fallen Angels that prioritizes comic momentum, particularly in its central sequence, while allowing less space for the subtler textures of Coward’s writing to fully develop.
That shift becomes most noticeable as the play moves toward its conclusion. The long-anticipated arrival of Maurice, built up through conversation and expectation, lands with less impact than the chaos that precedes it. The final moments resolve quickly, the energy dissipating rather than cresting, leaving the evening’s most vivid impressions rooted firmly in the earlier physical crescendo.
Even within that tightened structure, the production delivers a consistently entertaining experience. Its pleasures are immediate, driven by performance, precision, and the sheer enjoyment of watching two accomplished actors commit fully to the mechanics of comedy. Watching these two Fallen Angels, Julia and Jane, chase sensation through champagne and memory, the question of what they are actually searching for begins to settle into focus. Beneath the laughter and the spectacle, there is a quiet restlessness at play, a sense that something once felt has slipped just out of reach. That impulse, more than the plot itself, gives the evening its shape, guiding it forward even as everything else turns hazy and blurred.
