STAGE REVIEW : ‘ANATOL’: TOO MUCH ADO ABOUT LOVE

“Anatol” was Arthur Schnitzler’s first play and, more to the point, his first attempt to observe with a detached Viennese eye the foibles of men and women in love. The “Anatol” at the Matrix, dressed up by the legendary designer Erte, cannot hide behind the purpler-than-thou finery.

Which is probably why Isobel Estorick’s production strikes the listener as so listless and tired. No amount of pomp and circumstance can distract us very long from Schnitzler’s confused dramaturgy. At once a mocking of and a veritable ode to a misogynist, this string of seven episodes follows Anatol, a wanton bachelor of fin de siecle Vienna (Paul Rossilli), down the primrose path of lovers both true and false. This is a young man’s story stripped of all the optimism of the German Bildungsroman : It is now the age of Freud, imperial doom and doubt, and for Anatol, all is nothing but decaying memories. Sad, but he’s still a monster.

Fortunately, we have Anatol’s friend, Max (Joe Mays), to counter this Casanova’s views of women as miscreants and goddesses, whores and saints--above all, as the enemy to be conquered. (In a telling precursor of current feminist thought, he even equates the conquering of nature with the conquering of women.) Max is there to remind him that he’s his own worst enemy. But then, Max sometimes agrees with Anatol, as when he calls all women “riddles.” The messages are so confused here, it’s almost interesting.

But with Rossilli at the heart of this show, our interest wanes faster than it should. He plays Anatol like one of those silly young men in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” so nakedly fatuous you want someone to give him the paddle. It’s a disturbingly one-note performance, expressing nothing but the tone of effete self-pity. The very fact of Anatol’s blindness to himself is the challenge of bringing this character to life, but even the most obvious course--satire--is missed by Rossilli and Estorick. Only in the scene titled “Farewell Supper,” where Anatol is at last one-upped by a woman (the spirited Kiva Lawrence), does the satirical tone find its own voice.

Mays, by dramatic contrast, gives a bright and thoughtful performance as a wise, impish fellow always several miles ahead of his friend. The parade of women through Anatol’s life leaves a blur in our memory.

Erte’s costumes and sets, on the other hand, are ever-present and generally graceful. But if design sends messages (and the best does), how are we to read some of the ridiculous hats the women have to wear? My eye became distracted --the production is to blame, but wondering about hats and dresses isn’t what playgoing is about.

Performances at 7657 Melrose Ave., Wednesdays through Saturdays, 8 p.m., Sundays at 3 p.m.; (213) 852-1445. Runs indefinitely.