Summarize this content to 2000 words in 6 paragraphs in Arabic Unlock the Editor’s Digest for freeRoula Khalaf, Editor of the FT, selects her favourite stories in this weekly newsletter.Robert Downey Jr makes a surprisingly low-key Broadway debut in McNeal, playing a renowned Texan novelist facing a mid-life reckoning in the shadow of artificial intelligence. Opening at the Vivian Beaumont Theater in Lincoln Center, Ayad Akhtar’s latest topical play stirs together musings on artists stealing from life and on AI stealing from art, but lacks the verve of truly human messiness.Bartlett Sher’s production feels expansive, whether McNeal (Downey Jr) is sparring with his agent (a delightful Andrea Martin) in her office, or delivering his Nobel Prize acceptance speech at a lonely podium. That’s partly due to screens that tower over the stage displaying ChatGPT-style requests or blizzards of text. McNeal appears to write novels by asking AI to apply his style to amalgams of western literature while also cannibalising the lives of loved ones.“I’m a writer,” he says at one point. “I don’t keep anything to myself.” And the ornery novelist certainly has no shortage of material to draw on: a wife who died by suicide; a resentful son (Rafi Gavron); an affair with a prominent newspaper editor; near-fatal alcoholism. But the unruly character that all this might suggest is not especially in evidence in Downey Jr’s performance, which dials down his usual charm but doesn’t feel imbued with a suitably profound emotional core.We do see tantalising flickers of Downey Jr’s sly dexterity as an actor in McNeal’s face-off with a younger journalist (a commanding Brittany Bellizeare), who is writing a cover story about him. Committed to tell-all candour, McNeal drawls out opinions (on Harvey Weinstein, for example) that could sink his reputation. There is a spark as Downey Jr and Bellizeare circle each other, both wise to the rules of the game. But what’s clearly meant to be a pivotal moment in examining McNeal’s cultural stature and position of privilege ends just as it’s lifting off. Akhtar’s emotional scenarios can feel oddly musty at times, as when McNeal’s grown-up son confronts him about his mother’s suffering at dad’s country cabin (the most elaborate of Michael Yeargan and Jake Barton’s sharp sets). It’s hard to feel the depths of father-son animosity or affection here, and it’s not helped by Gavron’s powering through the conversation with a peevish hustle.Better is the banter between McNeal and his New York agent, Martin nearly stealing the show as she fusses over him and keeps him in line. The play’s other women seem simply to orbit McNeal’s life, appearing only in attenuated forms, perhaps because they are filtered through his solipsism: his former lover (Melora Hardin) in a murky scene of reunion; his exposition-supplying doctor (Ruthie Ann Miles); his agent’s avid assistant (Saisha Talwar).It’s an open question whether McNeal’s story deflates his stature as a literary lion or ends up just being Rothian ego-aggrandisement. The play’s ruminations on AI and the interplay of artistic originals and influences — one prompt involves mixing Shakespeare, Ibsen, Kafka and the Gospel of Luke — can feel less impactful than the set and lighting orchestrations, which periodically conjure audiovisual fugues.McNeal is an apt follow-up for Downey Jr after his Oscar-winning, simmeringly contained performance in Oppenheimer, a film that also deals with world-changing technology. But Akhtar’s play does not quite ignite, and — ironically for the story of an uninhibited writer — it could use a bit more fire in the belly.★★☆☆☆Booking to November 24, lct.org
