The New Yorker:

Denzel Washington and Jake Gyllenhaal lack direction, and “The Trojans,” a spirited football-themed Iliad, heads for the end zone.

By Helen Shaw

There’s a sense of occasion to the new “Othello” now at the Barrymore, on Broadway—Denzel Washington, one of our last true movie legends, is playing the titular role, and Jake Gyllenhaal, no slouch in the stardom department himself, appears as his evil saboteur, Iago. Producers are charging north of nine hundred dollars for orchestra seats, the kind of ludicrous, norm-busting event pricing that somehow drives demand; the sidewalk outside buzzes with excitement. Inside the theatre, though, it’s another story.

In Shakespeare’s oddly comic tragedy, jealousy is the prime mover. As the Venetians and the Ottoman Turks squabble over Cyprus in the background, the men before us quarrel over everything—a woman, a job, a handkerchief. Iago, a veteran soldier, hates Othello, his general, a Moor who fights for Venice: Iago’s missed out on a promotion, and he also half believes a rumor that Othello has seduced his wife, Emilia (Kimber Elayne Sprawl). His hatred devours all but his capacity to lie and plot; “I am not what I am,” he says. Iago turns his sights to ruining Othello’s new wife, Desdemona (Molly Osborne), with false clues and poisonous innuendo. Envious of what Othello has, he takes it.

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