Why Clifford Bradshaw (Ato Blankson-Wood), the bisexual American writer who is on the lam in Berlin from his parents’ conventional expectations, has decided to shack up with Sally, a tawdry chanteuse whose sad-sweet charm is nowhere in evidence, is one of the unanswered mysteries of this revival.

Rankin’s Sally strains after dramatic effects that fail to materialize. “Cabaret” has such a rich Broadway history. Natasha Richardson, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Michelle Williams and Emma Stone are part of the show’s glorious New York track record. The role can accommodate a broad spectrum of musical and dramatic talents, to say nothing of varying approaches to the character.

You don’t have to approve of Sally’s morality, but you have to care about the character’s fate. And that’s what Rankin’s unalluring performance prevents. What does it say about a revival of “Cabaret” in which I kept hoping that Fraulein Schneider (Bebe Neuwirth) would change the locks of her boardinghouse to keep Sally out of the production?

But there are other problems in the ensemble. The scenes between Sally and Blankson-Wood’s Clifford cry out for an acting coach — not a thought I can remember having at a premium Broadway revival of a classic musical in recent seasons.

I was relieved whenever the dependable veterans of the company, Neuwirth and Steven Skybell in the role of Herr Schultz — were front and center. But Neuwirth’s diminished singing only accentuated the production’s lackluster musicality — a weird irony given Neuwirth‘s Broadway pedigree.

The staging is at its best when it’s in circular motion. The choreography by Julia Cheng doesn’t aim to dazzle, but the fluidity is hypnotic nonetheless. The motley Kit Kat chorus crew adds ribald vibrancy to the swirl.

Redmayne is the reason to see this production, though as captivating as his performance is, he cannot rescue this misguided revival on his own. I’m also not entirely clear on how Frecknall is interpreting the Emcee’s role. The character’s queer vulnerability — the sense of a last gasp of misfit sexual freedom before the Nazis kill the party — is lost in the shuffle of the political menace that Redmayne begins to reflect in costuming and affect that become ever more expressionistic.

The Nazi peril is treated a touch too decoratively, though when Ernst Ludwig (a convincing Henry Gottfried), a newfound German friend of Clifford with questionable business dealings, takes off his coat and reveals a swastika armband the audience emits a collective sound of shock. But otherwise, the emotional impact of the story is nil.

Musically, the effect is even less. Usually, when Sally belts “Maybe This Time” in the first act, I never want the moment to end. Not here. Normally, I have to restrain myself from answering the title-song summons as the show moves toward its big finish. (What good is sitting alone in your room or anywhere for that matter with music this glorious in the world?) Sadly, in this grating rendition, I was recoiling from the din of a two-bit cabaret floozy and glancing at my watch.

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