With the arrival at the Plymouth Theatre of The Graduate, Broadway reaches its nadir, and I don't just mean this season. At least I hope this is its nadir: The Graduate, which is even more reprehensible than Mamma Mia!, nevertheless has in common with that show a crass cynicism in which reliance on a brand name substitutes for wit, style, or intelligence. The Graduate goes on, however, to rely also on hype—notably a 20-second nude appearance by Kathleen Turner that has gotten more attention in the media than anything else that's been seen on Broadway with the possible exception of Edward Albee's bestial Goat.

When it's not lewd or disgusting—which it is, fitfully—The Graduate is mostly extremely dull as it trudges through the events but not the feelings of the famous screenplay by Calder Willingham and Buck Henry. Undirected college grad Benjamin allows himself to drift into a stupid affair with his older neighbor Mrs. Robinson, only to realize that he has fallen in love with her daughter, Elaine. On screen, with '60s California as its backdrop and with that iconic Simon & Garfunkel soundtrack, it seemed to mean a lot. On stage, with what sounds only like Paul Simon's vamps emanating from the speakers, and with just Rob Howell's preciously expressionist oversized unit set to look at, it means nothing at all.

Young movie stars Jason Biggs and Alicia Silverstone do nothing wrong as Benjamin and Elaine, but neither do they do anything particularly right. Kathleen Turner, presumably the show's drawing card, registers nary a clap when she skulks on stage for the first time, looking, acting (and sounding) like Tallulah Bankhead on steroids. Later, when her bare bosoms are flopping around in the first act's protracted sex scene, she makes more of an impression.

What struck me most was Turner's ingenuous statement, in an interview in the Playbill, that "I was desperately looking for a way to justify some clothing": nudity for art's sake, you see. Interestingly, costar Biggs had no such compulsion—he emerges from the bed, after a rather grotesque simulation of oral sex, in his underwear. Hooray for the double standard.

Later, Susan Cella, a good actress, is reduced to playing a stripper who cooch dances in tassels and a g-string, much to the embarrassment of  Silverstone's character. (She was not alone.) Just when we thought Times Square was raunch-free, here comes The Graduate to remind us of the good old days. For something like 10 times more money per ticket.