Twelve Angry Men

This won’t amount to much, you think as you eye Allen Moyer’s appropriately drab jury-room set for the Roundabout Theatre Company’s national tour of Reginald Rose’s Twelve Angry Men. What’s in store, anyway? Probably some turgid 1950s teledrama resurrected and trotted out on the strength of two television-friendly names: Richard Thomas, who once played “John-Boy” Walton, as the renegade jurist, and George Wendt, formerly Norm of Cheers, as the foreman (not a standout role). In this era of courtroom-drama glut, when the seemingly infinite permutations of Law & Order are available 24 hours a day, what could possibly be the point of this revival?

Initially, there’s nothing to suggest that the show — directed here as it was on Broadway by Scott Ellis but with an entirely different cast — will soon have you riveted. But less than 15 minutes later, you’re perched on the edge of your seat, waiting for the latest character revelation among this random cross-section of males. Some of them — e.g., Todd Cerveris’ nebbishy Juror Two — at first seem more cowed than angry, while most of the others appear bored and impatient with the case that has been presented to them: A 16-year-old punk has fatally stabbed his father with a switchblade. Express ticket to the electric chair — end of story.

Only Thomas’ character, Juror Eight, stands apart. The actor plays him not with the glistening earnestness that Henry Fonda brought to the role in Sidney Lumet’s classic film version, but, instead, with a cool reserve. Suggesting the possibility of the accused kid’s innocence as if it were an interesting intellectual puzzle, Juror Eight is an unlikely crusader; he’s hyper-rational and methodical as he expresses his reservations piecemeal.

There are other smart men in this mixed bag: Juror Four (Jeffrey Hayenga), a stockbroker who’s clearly accustomed to skimming life’s bounty while never breaking a sweat, and Juror Eleven (David Lively), an immigrant of obvious cultivation. Then there are the hotheads, like Juror Three (Randle Mell), whose macho bravado suggests overcompensation, and Juror Ten (Julian Gamble), whose racist tirade toward the end of the proceedings still has the power to horrify a half-century after it was written. The race in question is never named, but it’s perfectly clear who “these people” are.

After this vicious spew, even Juror Four — Ten’s former ally — is disgusted to the point of breaking ranks. One by one, the other jurors trip themselves up on their own arguments or delve deeper into the cracks that Juror Eight has illumined. Most touchingly, Juror Nine (Alan Mandell), a frail old man, sees reflected in a key witness’ testimony his own fears of insignificance and decline. Meanwhile, amid the maelstrom of raised voices and stirred-up emotions, Juror Eight remains an island of common sense rather than an impassioned advocate. It’s an intriguing take on the role, and it ratchets up the surrounding drama exponentially.

So go to Twelve Angry Men, even if you don’t have high hopes. Iron-clad scripts like Rose’s don’t come along every day, and Ellis and his well-chosen ensemble do it full justice.