The Bear's Emmy–winning actors Jon Bernthal and Ebon Moss-Bachrach both make their Broadway debut by attempting something so daring that some might call them foolish or crazy. Which, considering the sweaty, ripped-from-the-headlines story at the heart of Dog Day Afternoon, is poetically fitting.

In headlining Dog Day Afternoon on Broadway, these two critically acclaimed actors invite an inevitable comparison to two of the most esteemed actors in 1970s American cinema. In 1975, Al Pacino and John Cazale co-starred in Sidney Lumet's Dog Day Afternoon, which was more than a box-office hit and a six-time Oscar nominee. Radiating with heat, energy, and a defiant, devil-may-care attitude, the film — based on a real bank robbery — has echoed across decades, in no small part because of the joint intensity of Pacino and Cazale. The scene where Pacino's Sonny yells, "Attica!" to a cheering crowd of civilians as the cops look on, guns drawn, is truly iconic, even to those who've never seen the movie. Pacino's radiant outrage shines even without context.

So, how do these two celebrated TV actors take to the stage to reinvent Dog Day Afternoon? Well, for starters, they do it as a comedy. 

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Imagine Dog Day Afternoon meets Cheers. 

The cast of Broadway's "Dog Day Afternoon." Credit: Production Photos by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman

Playwright Stephen Adly Guirgis cites both Frank Pierson's Oscar–winning screenplay for Dog Day Afternoon and the Life magazine article "The Boys in the Bank" by P.F. Kluge and Thomas Moore as inspiration for this Broadway translation. The broad strokes of the play are the same as the movie. 

A neon light onstage, lit even as the audience comes in, reads "Brooklyn: August 22, 1972," serving as a title card to establish the location. The set begins as a gray-bricked exterior of an otherwise unremarkable bank, where people in '70s attire come in and out of the double glass doors, until security guard Eddy (Danny Johnson) locks them up for the day. Little does he know that inside, two bank robbers are already at work. 

After some early fumbles, Sonny (Bernthal) and Sal (Moss -Bachrach) have their guns out and are demanding the small fleet of bank tellers empty their trays without triggering any alarm. It's clear from Sonny's directions that he has some insider knowledge of how a bank operates. But his best laid plans fail fast, leaving him and a coked-up and irritable Sal with a handful of hostages, as local police, the FBI, and a growing crowd of gawkers circle outside the bank. 

In the movie, the film shifts  into anxiety the moment Sonny reveals his gun. On stage, however, Guirgis establishes the scene with breezy banter between bank tellers. The audience is invited to chuckle as the "girls" gossip cheerfully about an extramarital affair and plans to see the "sex movie" Deep Throat. When Sonny comes on stage, the audience cheered with excitement — a common occurrence when a celebrity makes their entrance in a Broadway show. But here, perhaps because of the workplace sitcom energy that Guirgis and director Rupert Goold have established, it feels almost like the studio audience cheering the arrival of Norm at the bar where everyone knows his name. 

From here, Dog Day Afternoon has plenty of banter. The head teller, Colleen (Jessica Hecht), is established as a playful antagonist, who pokes holes in Sonny's big talk. A recurring joke will come from an FBI agent crudely mispronouncing the last name of Brooklyn cop, Detective Fucco (John Ortiz) as "fucko." And a bit of exposition about Sonny's homosexuality, which in the movie was delivered via a television newsman, is transformed into a jarringly stereotypical gay character, who pairs a lisp with his flamboyant affect. 

Now, there was certainly humor in Lumet's Dog Day Afternoon. But most of that came from a certain true-to-life absurdity of New Yorkers being deeply themselves, no matter the dire circumstances — like when Sonny tells the chief negotiation he'd like a kiss if he's going to get fucked (over by the police). On Broadway, however, the jokes are frequent and rarely so coarse. So much so that it's easy to forget this is a hostage situation, and not a hangout on a slow day at The Office. While some of this humor is certainly entertaining, the generally upbeat tone does nothing for the tension of the plot line. And Moss-Bachrach isn't a help there. 

Ebon Moss-Bachrach is lost in Dog Day Afternoon. 

Jon Bernthal and Ebon Moss-Bachrach star in Broadway's "Dog Day Afternoon." Credit: Production Photos by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman

On The Bear, Moss-Bachrach managed something that once seemed impossible to me. In Season 1, his pitch-perfect performance of the absolute irritant prick Richie had me loathing that character to the point my teeth would grit whenever he was onscreen. Then, in Season 2, Moss-Bachrach delicately performed a character transformation so calibrated and profound that I was cheering for Richie by the time he let loose with his Taylor Swift car karaoke moment. Moss-Bachrach is a talented actor who is able to make repellent characters lovable or funny (see also Girls). But in trying to fill the shoes of Cazale, he comes up short. 

Of course, Cazale is practically a mythic figure to actors and film lovers. After establishing a reputation in New York theater, he appeared in an impossible string of impeccable movies (The Godfather I and II, Dog Day Afternoon, The Conversation, and The Deer Hunter) before his untimely death in 1978. As Sal in Dog Day, he was a raw nerve drenched in flop sweat. He didn't speak much, but where Sonny was full of piss and vinegar — winning over the public, the hostages, and even a few cops to his cause — Sal was a constant reminder of the potential violence and death inherent in their demand and weapons. Cazale exuded this threat through a dark, determined stare. 

In Broadway's Dog Day Afternoon, this dynamic is meant to be the same. That's made clear from the many, many, many times the female bank tellers plead with Sonny or each other to calm Sal down as he gets worked up. But this Sal never evokes the same sense of sweaty danger. Lingering in corners, staring at the tellers as they chat over donuts, he should feel frightening. But there's something missing. Perhaps it's because Guirgis works in some backstory to flesh out his psychology and soften his character. Perhaps it's that Goold's staging, under bright lights with a set that competently and literally creates a small bank, lacks the moodiness or suffocating sense of heat and tension of Lumet's film. But it's also that Moss-Bachrach comes off stiff and flat onstage. And making matters worse — or tension less — Sonny has been declawed. 

Jon Bernthal is a sexy, swaggering Sonny — and it doesn't work. 

Jon Bernthal, Jessica Hecht, and Danny Johnson in Broadway's "Dog Day Afternoon." Credit: Production Photos by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman

Where Pacino enters the bank in an ill-fitting suit, his greasy hair already looking like he's not slept for days, Bernthal struts on stage as if he's ready for a sultry centerfold. Fitted slacks lead to a button-down shirt that's already rolled up to expose his muscular, tattooed forearms, which reach up to stroke his thick, suave pompadour. In this version of Dog Day Afternoon, Sonny arrives late to the robbery, and so has to smooth-talk his way past the guard. It's a charming scene, but also one that sets Sonny up as a charmer, not a threat — whereas in the movie, Sonny begins a tangle of nerves and shouting and only finds his gift of gab as he gets comfortable in the bank. 

This might seem a minor shift, but between this choice and amping up the comedy, and Moss-Bachrach's inert intimidation, Dog Day Afternoon on Broadway never manages to feel stressful. Overall, it feels frustratingly dumbed down. Even the show's politics seem undercut by Goold's staging. In both the movie and the play, Sonny rants about economic hardships, political corruption, and police brutality. But with the glossy sheen of Broadway lights and TV stars on stage in crisp costumes, the critique echoes a bit hollow. 

Goold attempts to bring the audience into the fervor by turning us into the crowd outside the bank. Actors in cop costumes run down the aisles, prop guns in hand. The cheap seats get in on the act as Ortiz stands in the balcony for a bit of the show, delivering his lines through a megaphone. And to Goold's credit, the audience the night I attended seemed giddy to join in on the call-and-response Bernthal's Sonny offers, cheering his cries of "Fuck Rockefeller! Fuck Nixon! Fuck the NYPD!" and "Attica! Attica!" However, this felt theatrical in the superficial sense of the word, as the play seems to capitalize on Bernthal's undeniable appeal rather than on the allure of Sonny's chaotic folk hero. 

John Bernthal is at his best when Sonny's at his lowest. 

Jon Bernthal and Jessica Hecht in Broadway's "Dog Day Afternoon." Credit: Production Photos by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman

To be clear, I'm not sure any actor could make this Dog Day Afternoon work. It's not just that Bernthal will be compared to Pacino. It's that a stage performance is being asked to do what a film performance only did with one of the greatest actors of a generation. Bernthal is a great actor, as seen in The Bear, The Punisher, and The Accountant 2. He's dynamic, complex, exciting, and charming, with a sense of danger. On paper, he's perfect for this attempt. But he cannot fill this Broadway theater with the energy of desperation, outrage, and life-or-death terror. 

And yet, he brings a resounding agony to Sonny's call with his wife, Leon (Esteban Andres Cruz). In both the movie and the play, Leon and Sonny are married, and they've had a lot of hardships along the way, including the psychological stress of Leon being misgendered as a cis man when she's a trans woman. Sonny robbed the bank to fund Leon's much-wanted gender affirming surgery, but considering how things have gone, when they talk, it's on the phone with very different expectations of how this dog day will end.

In both the film and show, it's a tender and chaotic moment between two lovers. And while there are points of Dog Day that feel like Bernthal is leaning into a Pacino impression, here he is alive, original, and riveting. The braggadocio is rechanneled into comforting Leon, who is a weepy wreck on the end of the line.

Cruz's role is short but deftly handled, bringing a biting humor and robust dignity to Leon. Together, they are electric, which made Goold's choice of staging for this scene absolutely infuriating. He places Bernthal and Cruz at opposite ends of the stage. So, where I was seated, I couldn't see both of them at once; I had to choose between stage right and stage left. Now, in the film, Lumet does cut from one to the other. But on stage, Goold has the choice to put them closer, to allow us to take in both performances in full for the whole scene. Instead, perhaps to reflect the distance in understanding of the situation between the two, he puts them worlds away. I couldn't help but wish that Goold broke down the literal staging of his sets (a bank and liquor store in this case) to allow these two to share a space in a way the movie couldn't allow. 

Jessica Hecht and John Ortiz are terrific in Dog Day Afternoon. 

John Ortiz in Broadway's "Dog Day Afternoon." Credit: Production Photos by Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman

Yes, I have beef with the script, the staging, and some of the casting. But props to Jessica Hecht and John Ortiz, who create a New York that feels grounded, despite Goold's leaning into Broadway sheen. As the head bank teller, Hecht offers a New York accent that feels lived in and authentic. But more than that, her attitude is familiar, evoking that Brooklyn broad who can be polite but won't be fucked with. Dedicatedly prim and feminine, she nonetheless pushes back on Sonny and Sal. And even where they're not overtly exuding a threat, her performance expresses that Colleen understands exactly how much of a danger these two jabronies are. 

For his part, as the bullied-by-all cop, Ortiz is classic. He taps into the '70s cinema inspiration to create a character who feels deeply blue collar, a bit bungling but devotedly determined to do right. In these characters, I can see Dog Day Afternoon not as the film it was, but as the play it might have been.

Unfortunately, both characters are unceremoniously cut from the plot in the third act, leading to a finale that becomes increasingly confounding. If you know how things turned out for the real-life Sonny, John Wojtowicz, Goold and Guirgis' choices will have better context. But the staging, once again, is more perplexing than powerful. 

Dog Day Afternoon is now playing at the August Wilson Theatre.