Just Cut It Already

I’ve never cared for long hair on guys – to me, they just look dirty and disheveled.  Perhaps then it would have been best had I grown up in the 50s so that lengthy locks could have some kind of traumatic effect on me.   It may come as no surprise, then, that I was not one of the thousands tonight at the Delacorte Theater who were proudly sporting their tye dye tees and enthusiastically bopping their heads and tapping their feet to the new sounding musical that captured the nation’s attention and acclaim back in 1968.  

This isn’t going to be one of my typical posts, as I don’t wish to review the Public’s production of that revolutionary rock ‘n’ roll musical, Hair.  The production was well-directed, well-acted, well-sung, well-costumed, etc.  I’ve heard nothing but good things from everyone regarding it, so there’s no point in my rehashing what everyone has already said.  

What struck me, however, was that while I was walking out of the theatre and through Central Park, Iwanted so badly to continue the groove of the rock showtunes.  But I didn’t want to let the sunshine in.  Instead, I skimmed through my ipod playlists, pressed play, and contentedly settled back in my seat on the train as I heard “December 24th, 9 P.M., Eastern Standard Time…”  While this particular show came nearly 30 years after the shock of such blatant song titles as “Sodomy” and “Hashish,” it too revolutionized musical theatre with its exploration of a timely and disturbing topic.

HAIR lacks luster in 2008.

The difference?  I like Rent.  I love Rent.  I’m not a Renthead or anything, but I dig it.  I get it.  The music makes me move and yearn to sing along, and the characters and situation move me.  Move me to tears, every time, to be completely honest, and if I want to embarrass myself even further, I’ve seen the show more times than any other (except perhaps my thesis show).  

Audiences have faithfully paid RENT since 1996.

So why don’t I care for Hair?  Rent is certainly steeped in its historical time just as much as Hair is, but Rent stays effective because it boasts fleshed-out, wholly sympathetic and entirely song-worthy characters.  In this time of war, you can defend Hair’s continuing topicality all you want, but the problem is it’s not shocking anymore.  The controversy is gone.  Very few are pro-war these days, and even fewer are traumatized by lyrics such as “black boys are delicious.”  The show simply no longer possesses the gut-wrenching punch it once did, and the hippie culture is one only my parents’ generation and those older than them can truly appreciate.  Hair has turned into a nostalgic piece.  What’s more, besides a terrific few, some of the songs are horribly awkward and ill-conceived.  ”Frank Mills” was entirely cringe-inducing and not because of Allison Case’s performance.  She was singing all of the correct notes, yet the notes weren’t correct.  The song lacks melody, and uncomfortably so, and boasts some truly awful lyrics.  

What I appreciate about Hair is that it’s so theatrical and can really incorporate the audience and almost trick those unwilling to engage in its politics.  The Public’s production did not engage the audience as much as I would’ve liked, but it certainly hinted at the musical’s possibilities to stimulate and interact with everyone.  Unfortunately, none of that is enough in 2008.  Declaring hair as a symbol of rebellion causes my eyes to roll, and a black female Abe Lincoln makes me yawn.  We’ve seen this all before, and it was much more powerful in 1968.

Now I’m not about to defend Rent as an artistic masterpiece.  It’s not.  But where Hair only outlinesits characters in an almost Brechtian way, Rent offers flesh and blood.  Yeah, there’s awkward lyrics here and there, and yes, there are musical sequences I wish Jonathan Larsen had had the presence of mind to cut before his premature death (helloooo, “Contact.”  Oy).  But I care about lesbian-loving Mark and self-absorbed Roger more than enough to follow them on their journey – and then return to it, time and time again.  I’m sure a bit of it has to do with the fact that Rent’s historical pertinence touches me more than Hair’s:  I did, after all, grow up in the 80s and 90s when the AIDS epidemic was at its full and terrifying height, when grunge was the latest fashion fad, and when rock was forcefully re-emerging amidst a pop-addled music scene.  I have no immediate connection to Vietnam, the fierce rebellion against domesticity, or the need to find a spiritual center through mind-altering drugs – but clearly, as the enthusiastic audience at the Delacorte Theater this past Thursday night demonstrated, I’m one of the few.

So why is that?  And why did it even occur to me to compare these two musicals?  Because they’re both musically revolutionary?  Both rock-based?  Steeped in their historical periods?  All I can say is that I think there’s a reason that Rent has almost without break been firmly ensconced on Broadway and constantly on tour since its 1996 premiere, and that Hair has never had a lasting revival or an endlessly revolving tour.  From my own experience, timelessness in theatre seems to result from its humanity and the relatability of its characters, if not of its specific situations.  Future generations may never fully understand how AIDS ravaged our country, but they’ll feel Collin’s pain at losing a loved one to the disease.  When the cast parted during Hair’s finale to reveal Claude lying dead on the American flag, I didn’t feel anything.  

Then again, maybe that’s more a comment on the state of the country than on the musical itself.

What a Bunch of [tossers]

 

An Original Musical? Not so much. (Top: Jeff Bowen; Bottom: Hunter Bell)

[tossers]: what an apt moniker for fans of the little-show-that-could, [title of show], which debuted on June 17^th at the Lyceum Theatre.  Whoever came up with that fan name clearly is not British, or if so, thinks he or she is just as clever and witty as the show itself – which is to say, not very.

 

 

[tos] is a show about making a show, something we’ve seen many times before in incantations which were much more joyful and funny and that offered some kind of artistic merit (42^nd Street comes to mind).  Here, creator-stars Jeff Bowen (music lyrics) and Hunter Bell (book) outline their not entirely original journey from the inkling of a show possibility as they sit squandering time away in their respective New York apartments to the festival circuit to their hit off-Broadway run to finally hitting the big time on “The Broadway,” as they like to call it.   I hear that the You Tube campaign launched to create buzz for the show – in which they created a video-log of their attempts to approach individual Broadway theatres in a charming effort to convince them to produce the show – was a hoot, but unfortunately, it’s only referred to in passing in the show.  Why they didn’t utilize some film projections so as to incorporate them is beyond me.  It may have added some much needed production quality – and genuine humor – to the show. 

Now don’t get me wrong:  Bowen and Bell are endlessly endearing in their love for all things musical theatre, and their earnestness to create a successful show with artistic merit is awfully admirable.  But when they sing of their plight to create “An Original Musical” and later compare their own “risk-taking” to that of such renowned and innovative creative teams as Kander and Ebb (The Rink), Comden and Green (On the Town), they simply point towards their own creative inadequacies.  Bowen’s tunes, while catchy for the most part, are not really theatrical, and Bell’s book is simply uninspired and not as funny as he wants – and needs – it to be.  There are constant jokes that center on obscure musical references that you’ll only get if you’re “in the know” (Bowen sings lyrics from the notorious flop, Henry, Sweet Henry, for example) or if you’ve just starred in a community theatre production of Into the Woods (there are at least three lyrical references to that Sondheim fairy tale favorite).  The guys are charming and full of energy, though, and equally so are their two friends who eagerly round out the cast:  Heidi Blickenstaff, the powerhouse voice, and Susan Blackwell, the quirky character actress.  I’d like to say that the cast is so much better than the material they are performing, but that would only do them a disservice.

What it really comes down to is this:  [tos] has no business being on Broadway.  Bowen and Bell’s amazing persistence and determination defied all odds, but my guess is this 4-man-4-chairs-1-keyboard show won’t be there for long.  What is essentially a tiresome variant on the Forbidden Broadway-style that would (and did) happily succeed ensconced in a cozy off-Broadway theatre, maintains only a niche following here; the majority of the tourist-spectators (which only filled half the auditorium when I was there on a Monday – a night which doesn’t afford much competition as the majority of Broadway theatres are dark) frequently turn to their just-as-bewildered companions with a mystified look as if to say, “We’re paying $100 for this?  Monkeys and Vampires?  I don’t get it.”  Broadway productions come with expectations – fair or not – and if a work isn’t musically inventive, it should at the very least have some wonderfully unnecessary pyro (a la Carrie’s hands aflame), Drew Lachey, or a roller skating mermaid or two.  The thing is, I’m a self-proclaimed musical theatre whore and I don’t get [tos]’s draw either.  [title of show], far from being my favorite thing, is not even my ninth favorite thing.  [tos] that.

A Rather Sad “Affair”

Despite overcast skies and that tangible feeling of impending rain, 48th St. on Sunday afternoon exuded happy anticpation with its line of chatty theatergoers and group of smiling producers who milled about with a sense of satisfied ease.  The atmosphere inside the Walter Kerr Theatre, however, more closely mirrored the weather outside:  only 90 minutes later, emotions would run high and fast, and there would be flowers, many tears, and a wistful farewell speech.

But is anyone really surprised that A Catered Affair, which walked away empty-handed from both the Tonys and the Drama Desk Awards, would close on July 28 after only 116 performances?  What many describe as a chamber musical – my favourite vague and most unnecessary categorization since “concept musical” – this melancholy little musical with its understated score and realistic (ie. imperfectly rhymed and not quite eloquent) lyrics by John Bucchino, in his first attempt at the Broadway book musical, is based on an original teleplay by Paddy Chayefsky as filmed by Gore Vidal.  Penning the sober book is Broadway favourite Harvey Fierstein who gave himself the only few laughs in the production as the flamboyant live-in uncle of the Hurley family.  When Jane (Leslie Kritzer) announces to Ma and Pa Hurley that she wishes to elope with beau Ralph Halloran (an under-utilized Matt Cavenaugh, last seen in the much more interesting Grey Gardens), she offers the only dramatic impetus in a show built solely around the theme of marriage.  The Bronx family is scraping by in an apparently loveless 1950s marriage as father Tom attempts to start a new business in a desperate attempt to give his family a better life – all the while dealing with the recent death of their only son in the war and desiring to give their oft-neglected daughter a wedding to remember. 

Celebrated director John Doyle, instead of enriching the emotion and intimacy necessary for such a small musical, offers sparse and rather cold staging.  Presumably to compliment the rather thin book and score, Doyle places gossiping housewives on various flats representing apartment levels (David Gallo’s set is reminiscent of a more bare bones West Side Story fire escape), and the actors wander back and forth across only a small portion of the stage.  It appears that without instruments in hand, Mr. Doyle, famous (notorious, perhaps?) for his use of actor-musicians in the recent revivals of Sweeney Todd and Company, was unable to manipulate the large space to create a necessary intimacy.  As it was, the large Broadway house swallowed the Hurleys whole; this small and curious musical, like so many others in past years, suffered largely because it simply did not belong on the Great White Way.

Had Affair been placed in a smaller space, with audience and actors in closer connection, it may have effectively pulled spectators into the emotional undercurrents of the show, despite the understated dialogue and the score that never soars to emotional heights or even offers a standard Broadway melody to hum along to.  Not that Bucchino should be limited by such expectations: the score’s conceit of offering a constant undercurrent to the show (much dialogue is underscored) that allows the performers to weave out of spoken, and into sung, dialogue is an interesting and certainly a valid one for a show in which the characters are so ordinary and emotionally reserved that they would never, ever sing.  While this quiet and rather unmelodic score suits the conservative Hurleys, it does not, however, offer an inspired or cathartic evening at the theatre.  

Fortunately for Mr. Bucchino, Affair was lucky enough to gather the extraordinary talents of Tom Wopat as Tom Hurely and Faith Prince as his wife, Aggie.  While the score may deny the Hurleys the dramatic motivation and emotional release they so achingly need, Wopat and Prince rise above the constraints of the show and offer audiences performances filled with pain, longing, bitterness, and defeat.  It is not when Tom angrily retorts to his wife in song, “I Stayed,” that we recognize and actuallyfel his suffering, but in the tortured look he gives her when she states that their marriage is and has always been loveless.  And it is not when Aggie offers her “Vision” of a perfect wedding that we truly see what she has sacrificed and denied herself all of these years; it is when Prince is left sitting in a chair, disconsolately staring off into an empty room that we feel the deep sadness that is within her character.  Musical scores need not heighten emotions nor cause us to leave the theatre humming a happy tune, but their selection as a method of storytelling should be of a more inspired reason:  if the characters are not emotionally capable of singing, as Bucchino’s constant spoken/sung and subdued score implies, why set their story to music at all?    Not a rhetorical question at all, but perhaps one that writers and producers alike should more thoughtfully consider when taking on such a project. 

* * *

Outside, a few persistent raindrops fought to break through the thick air surrounding the Walter Kerr. Inside, during their final curtain call, the cast of A Catered Affair, after ninety straight minutes of restrained emotion, was finally allowed a moment of release.  

And the rain felt good.

 

Yankees Has a Lotta “Heart”

 

Jackson and Krakowski are "Two Lost Souls" in New York City Center's limited engagement of Damn Yankees (photo credit Newsday/Ari Mintz)

Having heard mixed reviews, I walked into the City Center not sure what to expect.  While I’ve always had a soft spot for The Pajama Game (due mostly to its clever and tuneful score/lyrics), I knew that the musical-making team of Richard Adler and Jerry Ross, while promising, was short-lived due to Ross’s untimely death at age 29 only months after the Broadway premiere of Yankees. One can only imagine the varied and talented work he and Adler would have accomplished together had they only had the time.

As the second and, sadly, final of their two shows together, Damn Yankees charmingly capitalizes on America’s favorite pastime during the height of baseball’s popularity in the 50s.  Meg is frustrated with her husband Joe, a loyal and exasperated fan of the rather lackluster Washington Senators, who spends more time yelling at the bungling ballplayers on television than he does affectionately conversing with her.  When Joe encounters the commanding and delectably devilish Mr. Applegate, he rashly sells his soul – with added escape clause, of course, him being a real estate man and all  - for a shot to become the brilliant ballplayer who can take his cherished Senators all the way.  

While George Abbott and Douglass Wallop’s Faustian book is quaint and rather simplistic, the actors make the most of it, and there are some very fine performances.  Will and Grace star, Sean Hayes, was clearly the audience favorite, as he evoked an off-handedly facetious and smooth Satan who gamely attempts to corrupt the upright – and verging on dull – “Shoeless” Joe Hardy (the charming and beautifully voiced Cheyenne Jackson) to enter into an affair with his sexy protege, Lola (the flexible and engaging Jane Krakowski).  Hayes may not be the strongest singer, but with only one musical number – the sardonic and show-stopping “Those Were the Good Old Days” – he brings the house down, accompanying himself on the piano (“Yes, I’m really playing”) and delightfully playing directly the to the audience.

While the stars shine, giving sparkle to the many memorable songs, the production goes a bit awry whenever it attempts to showcase the signature Fosse choreography. Choreographer Mary MacLeod attempts to faithfully recreate the dancing man’s famously strict movements – snapping fingers, tilted bowler hats, isolated hips and shoulders – but the ensemble never quite masters the master.  A bit sloppy, the dances are never as sharp and contained as they should be.  What’s more, the Fosse style appears oddly anachronistic in a baseball musical that takes place in the conservative 50s, and its presence in this production only serves to highlight those superfluous numbers that were added for Yankees’s original star (Gwen Verdon) and/or to showcase Fosse’s talent.  To this point, the mambo number (“Who’s Got the Pain?”) performed by Joe’s fan club as the act one closer is baffling and frustratingly unintegrated.  While Fosse’s sharp and isolated style adds to and develops a show like Sweet Charity which takes place in a 60s dance hall, it fails to characterize Yankees, and unfortunately, director John Rando’s staging doesn’t help: transitions between dance numbers and dialogue are awkward and stilted. 

Despite its choreographic flaws and the somewhat dated book, City Center’s Damn Yankees offers an overall charming evening at the theatre, and the two individuals largely to be accredited for such success are the musical makers themselves, Adler and Ross.  With the wistful ballad “A Man Doesn’t Know,” the bouncy and infectious “Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, MO,” and the seductive “Whatever Lola Wants,” Yankees can’t help but steal your “Heart.”

Jeff Daniels’s Singing Cowboy Never Quite Hits that High Note

When I heard that Jeff Daniels’s new play was a musical comedy about a singing cowboy, there was no way I was going to pass that up.  While Daniels has maintained a vast and varied film career, acting in everything from family fare (101 Dalmations) to indie gems (The Squid and the Whale) to politically-charged Oscar winners (Good Night, and Good Luck), he’s also a playwright and founder of The Purple Rose Theatre Company in his hometown of Chelsea, Michigan, a small town just west of Ann Arbor.  Though he’s certainly pulled off some serious – and seriously good – fare in the past (his The Guest Artist, about the meeting at a bus station of a young playwright and his not-so-green mentor, covers art and politics and everything in between and is both moving and philosophically engaging), he’s probably best-known in theatre circles for Escanaba in da Moonlight, his Dumb and Dumber-esque comedy about life in Northern Michigan that essentially revolves around much hunting shtick and many, many flatulence jokes.  So, knowing Daniels’s previous work, I assumed that Panhandle Slim and the Oklahoma Kid would be something akin to an utterly ridiculous musical comedy adaptation of Brokeback Mountain.  But you know what they say about assuming things…

Panhandle, though a musical comedy of sorts (it’s more of a “play with songs”), is more about showcasing Daniels’s original music (which is tuneful, but not exactly essential to developing plot or character) than it is about making anyone laugh.  It tells the simple story of a wayward outlaw who provokes the wrong cowpoke, thus getting himself shot, tied up, and left to die an amazingly slow death under the sweltering prairie sun (a sun which the audience can practically feel thanks to lighting designer Reid Johnson’s warm, glowing tones).  Luckily for Slim (and for us), a singing cowboy saunters onto the scene, wielding a guitar instead of a gun, and proceeds to sporadically humor us for the seemingly long remainder of the ninety minute show.  Thanks to his Monty Python-styled giddy-up and his impeccable comic timing, John Seibert’s Oklahoma Kid is a shining advert for living unconcernedly and reveling in a happy-go-lucky attitude. Unfortunately, Daniels’s play and Guy Sanville’s direction allow too few opportunities for Seibert to really shine, and instead waste too much time on strange flashback sequences in which we are introduced to Slim’s would-be love (if only he would learn to be good!), played by Jessica Garrett with a lovely lilt to her vocal lines, and the man he wronged (Phil Powers).

Panhandle Slim perpetually repeats jokes that aren’t all that funny in the first place and does so in between not-exactly-profound discussions of the meaning of life.  It’s an odd mix that doesn’t work effectively because the play only touches on those deeper themes, never delving into them, and the comedic portions aren’t nearly light and charming enough to seamlessly transition between and infiltrate the philosophical discussions.  While Daniels’s past efforts with comedy and not-so-usual settings (I can’t imagine there exists many plays set in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula) and styles worked in his favor, it’s no wonder that this production represents the sixth draft of a play for which he claims “th characters led the way.”  Could anyone expect more than a few stale jokes and halfhearted attempts at serious discussion from a balladeering broncobuster and a feckless fugitive?  Maybe not, but based on the many unamused faces I observed during the show, I don’t think I was the only one assuming things.