The current revival of “Dolly” has settled on Broadway for what promises to be another of its many eternities, after which the meteor and her asteroids will go whooshing off to exotic climes like Japan and Australia. Why does Channing do it? Money? Nah. Adulation? Well, there is that irresistible nightly big bang. But Channing assuredly does it because she is one of those pure theater animals without whom there would be no theater at all. That goggle-eyed stare is like a friendlier Greek comic mask. The gravelly contralto is a sister to the vocal slapstick of Bert Lahr. Her gluttonous annihilation of a plate of potato puffs evokes Harpo Marx. Looking like a human parfait in her red, green and orange turn-of-century outfits, Channing rekindles a straight-to-the-heart, popular theater that’s as gone as the show’s horse-drawn trolley. Lee Roy Reems’s staging is as broad as a barn, but it acts as a trampoline that makes Channing’s flouncing seem like bouncing. Circusy? Sure. Even a little scary, like Ali back in the ring. But Channing KO’s mortality.
