The Star's Costume? Nature's Eye-Catching Design (or, Kathleen Turner Doffs Her Clothes On-Stage)

That, give or take a few seconds, is how long the beauteous movie star Kathleen Turner stands stark naked in "The Graduate," the weary new comedy that opened last night at the Plymouth Theater.

This dimly lighted moment of exposure generated heavy-breathing headlines in London when Ms. Turner appeared there two years ago in the same play (inspired by the 1967 film of the same title), and it is presumably one big reason the show's New York incarnation has a $5.3 million advance ticket sale. (It doesn't hurt that the production features Jason Biggs and Alicia Silverstone, the young stars of the hit films "American Pie" and "Clueless," respectively.)

With top seats for "The Graduate" going for $76.25, those 20 seconds cost close to $4 each for theatergoers interested only in full-frontal star gazing. So for those who have yet to purchase their tickets, the following series of questions and answers is intended as a helpful consumer guide.

A. Good question. You might be interested to learn that the London production garnered only one Olivier Award (the English equivalent of the Tony), and that was for lighting by Hugh Vanstone. In her nude scene, Ms. Turner is bathed in tactful but forbidding twilight that, like most of the show's humor, is blue.

A. Terrific, although not so much luscious as imperial. Think of a marble statue of some vengeful Roman deity (Juno, perhaps) in a courtyard in old Pompeii.

A. Opinion is divided here, but it would appear she is. Under the circumstances, wouldn't you?

Q. Can you buy those cool Mrs. Robinson bath towels (in honor of the lascivious housewife played by Ms. Turner) that were on sale in London, to commemorate this moment?

And there you have the crux of "The Graduate." Otherwise, the play feels barer — and certainly less substantial — than Ms. Turner in the altogether. Inspired by Mike Nichols's benchmark movie and the earlier cult novel by Charles Webb, this leering, undercooked show is the most cynical specimen to date of the theater's current vogue for cannibalizing Hollywood classics.

In shaping the production, its adapter and director, Terry Johnson, has dipped deeper into Mr. Webb's original novel, adding scenes that were not in the movie. Overall, though, it's the same story that won the hearts of young and misunderstood-feeling moviegoers 35 years ago while pushing Dustin Hoffman into instant stardom as the disaffected college graduate of the title.

Once again you find Benjamin Braddock (Mr. Biggs) fretting over his future in empty, materialistic Southern California, and marking time by going to bed with Mrs. Robinson (Ms. Turner), an alcoholic friend of his parents, and falling in love with her daughter, Elaine (Ms. Silverstone).

That the movie today seems less dated than most anti-establishment films of its time has much to do with its cinematic inventiveness. Mr. Nichols and his cinematographer, Robert Surtees, made California sunlight seem suffocating and turned backyard swimming pools into sterile isolation chambers.

And of course there was the sublime Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson, creating an entirely new paradigm for the all-American vamp: a hard-drinking, vulpine, glacially composed woman who despite her evil ways became a serious sex object for moviegoing suburban youths.

The film may have been schematic in its disdain for the grotesqueness of the affluent society, but it still pulses with emotional energy and conflict. The stage version, on the other hand, turns the same plot into what is essentially a long-running dirty joke. Nearly everything seems as flat and two-dimensional as construction paper, as if this were "The Graduate: The Board Game."

All this felt less offensive in London, where you could shrug the play off as another instance of those wacky English people making fun of those wacky cartoons called Americans. There was also the fascination of the feverish gratitude that Ms. Turner's nude scene (like Nicole Kidman's several years earlier in "The Blue Room") inspired in the press. "O gracious and glamorous celebrity," went the subtext. "Thank you for doffing your kit for us."

On American shores, "The Graduate" seems more blatantly exploitative, suggesting Broadway's own answer to the Tonya Harding-Paula Jones boxing match. The show trafficks easily and cheaply in memories of the movie and the Q ratings of its stars, while gloating over the more relaxed sexual attitudes of the 21st century. Hey, you didn't get to watch Anne Bancroft and Dustin Hoffman simulate oral sex.

Rob Howell's minimal set, a wall of louvered doors of the kind you would find on a poolhouse, suggests a world in which clothes are removed quickly and everything stays casual.

Visual and physical jokes that blended into the mise-en-scène of the movie (e.g., Mrs. Robinson's blowing smoke from her mouth after Benjamin kisses her) are heightened into sight gags. The show relies heavily on associative triggers that stir memories of the movie and let you fill in the blanks.

Thus the evening begins with the amplified sounds of Benjamin's breathing in a scuba diver's mask, which in the film was famously rendered through the character's glassed-in perspective. The uttering of catchwords and phrases from the movie (like "Plastics") are set up laboriously and presented in capital letters. The fabled Simon and Garfunkel music is used mostly in teasing phrases, with fuller use of songs by groups like the Beach Boys and the Mamas and the Papas.

Benjamin's youthful angst and Mrs. Robinson's middle-aged anger have been turned into stepping stones to punch lines. Mr. Biggs and Ms. Silverstone often give the impression that they are inventing their dialogue on the spot in an acting class.

Mr. Biggs has some funny line deliveries, but they never seem to connect to a character. Ms. Silverstone looks pretty and gives a squeaky, frightened performance. Their scenes together limp along blandly, never building. Still, how could anyone make palatable the play's version of Elaine, who is one of those dewy, exceedingly whimsical 60's-style waifs. (She loves taxi drivers because she believes they are all "fallen angels.")

There are other performers who embody in shrill satirical ways — with costumes to match by Mr. Howell — the hypocrisies of the older generation and period trendiness. (Don't even ask about the Timothy Leary-like guru.) But only Ms. Turner is any fun at all to watch.

In keeping with the tone of the evening, she plays Mrs. Robinson on one single deep-voiced note, evoking infinite jadedness and bottomless appetites. She tends to plant herself solidly and defiantly on the stage as she delivers withering, deadpan epigrams, occasionally whipping back her head like a restless mare.

Hers is a commanding presence, all right, although it might have been more appropriate in a guest spot on the late lamented "Xena: Warrior Princess." At any moment you expect her to say, "Foolish mortal, how dare you defy me."

Still, in the terms of what this "Graduate" is selling, a star is a star. And Ms. Turner definitely gives off starlight. There are also a couple of moments — one when Mrs. Robinson kicks off a shoe; another when she leaps springily into bed — when Ms. Turner exudes a delighted, sprightly energy that make you realize she may be enjoying herself. It's nice to think that someone is.

Based on the novel by Charles Webb and the motion picture screenplay by Calder Willingham and Buck Henry. By special arrangement with StudioCanal. Adapted and directed by Terry Johnson. Sets and costumes by Rob Howell; lighting by Hugh Vanstone; sound by Christopher Cronin; hair and makeup by Naomi Donne; songs by Paul Simon; recordings performed by Simon and Garfunkel; other music and songs by Barrington Pheloung and original artists. Production supervisor, Peter Lawrence; technical supervisors, O'Donovan and Bradford; general manager, EGS; company manager, Susan Sampliner; associate producers, Clear Channel Entertainment and StudioCanal. Presented by John Reid and Sacha Brooks. At the Plymouth Theater, 236 West 45th Street, Manhattan.

WITH: Kathleen Turner (Mrs. Robinson), Jason Biggs (Benjamin Braddock), Alicia Silverstone (Elaine Robinson), Murphy Guyer (Mr. Braddock), Victor Slezak (Mr. Robinson), Kate Skinner (Mrs. Braddock), Robert Emmet Lunney (the Hotel Clerk, the Bar Patron and the Psychiatrist), John Hillner (the Bartender, the Priest and the Motel Manager), Kelly Overton (the Assistant Desk Clerk), Judson Pearce Morgan (the Bellhop and Man in Bar) and Susan Cella (the Stripper).

This show appears to have gotten some stinging pans, which only proves there's a suck -- uh, theatergoer born every minute.

I see Lowry "Lousy" Mays is co-producing. Think we could influence him to sell choice orchestra seats for $480? (He co-produced The Producers too.)

In her nude scene, Ms. Turner is bathed in tactful but forbidding twilight that, like most of the show's humor, is blue.

My wife and I caught Ms. Turner in this play when it was in London. It was quite plodding, Turner was the only decent Actor/Actress in the production and it borrowed heavily from the movie (Turner had manerisms much like Bancroft in the original). I thought it was played to a kind of a "campy" effect.

Oh yes, the nude scene...it was so dark you could only see a silhouette, but it was a very attractive silhouette!

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