Censored books in flames, wall-to-wall television, and a near-futile battle for substance over sound-bites: Ray Bradbury's 1953 story-turned-novel "Fahrenheit 451" has been prophetic enough to become one of the classics of science fiction. But unfortunately, Scott Spence's production of Bradbury's hokey stage adaptation, now on view at the Beck Center for the Arts, is as noncombustible as soggy cardboard: nothing can make it ignite.
"Fahrenheit 451", titled for the temperature at which book paper burns, centers around Guy Montag, a disaffected "fireman" whose job in this dystopian future is rushing off to douse contraband books with kerosene. In Bradbury's undramatic script, Montag is a cipher everyman who primarily exists for other characters to incessantly preach at, or to preach at others.
The striking-looking but quirky Mark Mayo doesn't have the range to make the wooden Montag come alive. There's subzero chemistry between him and his irritatingly flat muse Clarisse (Drew Kulow), and his scenes with her grandfather (Mark Cipra), who whispers encouraging quotes in his ear via radio, have the coarse acting quality of a cheesy Mel Brooks spoof.
Perversely, the most engaging actors are Montag's two antagonists, which makes him even harder to sympathize with. As his reality-TV-obsessed wife Mildred, Nicole Sterns magically manages to create an intriguing, three-dimensional character out of the flimsiest stereotype. Whether silently fuming under Montag's self-righteous abuse, or watching programs with her friends, she's a delight to watch.
Joe Bandille plays Montag's hypocritical fire captain, the purported villain of the piece, with Machiavellian zest and brio. His first-act monologue about the zooming-fast media-drenched society that has made books obsolete is a highlight of the show.
The production designs sometimes enhance -- Mike Baker's computer graphic design for the eight-legged dog is particularly charming -- but too often fall short. Don McBride's cavernously empty black set, punctuated by glowing TV's and a firemen's pole, creates an ominous opening image, but it swallows up the charisma-challenged cast. Too many blackouts between scenes fatally interrupt the flow, though Rob Phillips' sinister electronic score helps. Costumer Ali Hernan's slick black suits with red salamander logos for the fireman are nicely futuristic, but the dismal finale screams Bad School Pageant.
In fact, too much of the evening is annoyingly reminiscent of a well-meaning but fatally clunky school message play, where the combination of pandering, preaching, and ineptitude manages to momentarily turn you against something you otherwise believe in. The script clearly intends to make you want to cherish literature; ironically, it makes bad TV look good.
Originally published in the Plain Dealer.