Review: Sexual Misconduct of the Middle Classes, Hugh Jackman’s MeToo Affair

She’s a waifish 19-year-old freshly arrived at college. He’s a middle-aged professor and acclaimed novelist, the author of his own story. Quite literally, the male protagonist of Hannah Moscovitch’s two-person drama, Sexual Misconduct of the Middle Classes, is the one whom Moscovitch allows to speak directly to us, eruditely narrating the physical events and emotion breakdowns that helped him justify an affair with a woman less than half his age—whose work he was charged with grading.

The power of authorship is a preoccupation of both Sexual Misconduct and Creditors, about a woman who has written a bestselling book on her dysfunctional first marriage to an older man, and which is currently running in rep with this play at the Minetta Lane Theatre in a co-production of Audible and Together. Does it change our feelings when the roles are reversed and the older man tells the story? Smartly written and exceedingly well-acted, Sexual Misconduct proves just how seductive the author’s voice can be.

It’s undeniable when that author, Jon Macklem, is portrayed by Hugh Jackman, the reigning first gentleman of the stage and a surefire box office draw for over two decades. The twinkle in his eyes, bulging veins in his arms, and playful lilt in his voice (why is everything funnier in an Australian accent?) represents an irresistible triple-prong charm offensive.

Add to that his observant turns-of-phrase in describing things like the “emotional economy” with which his third wife left him. Jon has the writer’s curse of being able to recognize cliché even while willingly engaging in one, and that hypocrisy fuels the humor in Sexual Misconduct. The house lights remain at a high dim through much of the 80-minute runtime, making it feel like a highbrow standup routine, a vibe Jackman merrily embraces with little ad-libs to the audience.

Following an intimate but non-sexual moment with his student, Annie (Ella Beatty), who happens to live next door, Jon decides to spend the next day writing on his front porch “on a whim.” And the look he shoots the audience instantly tells us that the decision may be whimsical, but it is also calculated. We, his newfound co-conspirators, accede with a laugh.

“You’ve been sitting out here for most of the day and you keep looking at my window, so I thought you might want me to come and say hi,” Annie says when she finally approaches, disarming him with her shrewd observation plainly spoken (she’s also a writer).

With rapier-sharp comic timing and shoulders arched forward to form crenellations on the fortress of her body, Beatty delivers a remarkably nuanced performance of a smart young woman just recognizing the power in her sex, but not fully sure how to use it. She knows she wants to be a writer though, and Jon is someone well-connected in the publishing industry, whose work she admires. Is that power an aphrodisiac, or is it just power? Again, it’s hard to tell since so much of this story is told from the male perspective. But Beatty’s shallow breaths as they enter Jon’s house for sex, as if she is wary of disturbing a soufflé, tell us that she understands the stakes—but she’s still just 19.

Later, as the story progresses from 2014 to 2018 (the year Harvey Weinstein was arrested and charged with rape), Beatty ages Annie up to a self-consciously adult 23 for an unhappy hotel bar reunion (Ásta Bennie Hostetter outfits her in all-black artistic business casual, her hair pulled back in a severe bun). She ages once again for the final scene, a fully confident adult speaking in a lower register, her eyes meeting Jon’s as equals. You may have bought a ticket for Jackman, but you’ll be talking about Beatty for days after.

As with Creditors, Ian Rickson directs a production focused on performances, with few design frills. The wooden chairs and salvaged tables of Brett J. Banakis and Christine Jones’s set spend most of the play hugging the perimeter, as if intimidated by the Hollywood pedigree onstage. Sound designer Mikaal Sulaiman underscores brief scene breaks with contemplative piano and string music. In the show’s most beautiful, a collaboration with lighting designer Isabella Byrd, Jackman weeps in a pale blue light like the subject of a Taylor Swift song not yet written.

Sexual Misconduct is likely to confound partisans on both sides of the increasingly dull war of the sexes, and that’s what makes it such a compelling drama. Moscovitch admirably refuses to exchange female agency for a simplistic victim narrative, but she’s also keenly aware of how eager all of us are to be led by someone older and wiser—how the myth of the sensible adult is one of the central fables of childhood. Until one lets that go, it’s impossible to grow up, and far too easy to be railroaded into behavior that will appear regrettable in the rearview mirror.