Everything I Know I Learned From Musicals

Review - After Midnight on Broadway

One of the great unexpected pleasures of the new Broadway season is After Midnight, an effervescent tribute to the joys and spirit of Harlem in the 1920s and '30s, in particular the fabled Cotton Club. Bottom line: You're unlikely to find a more buoyant, sassy, and downright infectious time at the theater anywhere else in New York City right now.

After Midnight is a gussied-up version of Cotton Club Parade, the well-received 2011 Encores production. I didn't get a chance to see Cotton Club Parade, but if it's anything like After Midnight, then I think I must have missed out on something rather special.

Revues can be really tricky to pull off. I mean, they're fairly easy to throw together, if you don't particularly care about dramatic cohesion or flow. But that's just the thing: revues that have no sense of unity or continuity wind up being just an uninspired slog through song after song after song.

Fortunately, After Midnight comes with a built-in framing device: a typical Cotton Club revue. More important, After Midnight has director/choreographer Warren Carlyle, who whips the production up into an exhilarating froth, keeping the action moving inexorably forward, right through to two separate, and equally satisfying, finales. 

For the uninitiated, The Cotton Club was a popular New York nightspot during the '20s and '30s. Although the club was in Harlem, it was nonetheless a whites-only establishment, at least when it came to the audience. The stage featured many of the best black entertainers of the time, including Count Basie, Bessie Smith, Cab Calloway, The Nicholas Brothers, Ella Fitzgerald, Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, and Ethel Waters. I've heard some carps from other critics that After Midnight doesn't delve at all into the social history of The Cotton Club, but that's not really what After Midnight is about. The point here seems to be to recreate the excitement of The Cotton Club, and to pay homage to the talent and legacy of the great entertainers who made those shows so electrifying.

After Midnight has some pretty electrifying performers of its own, including Fantasia Barrino, the first of a series of planned rotating guests stars. (In February, K.D. Lang joins the show, followed by Toni Braxton and Babyface.) I must admit, Fantasia was a pleasant surprise here. I'm somewhat (and by intention) ignorant of popular music, but I do know that Fantasia won "American Idol" a few seasons back. I was sort of expecting the showboating vocals and Mariah Carey melisma that seem all too typical of these televised singing competitions, but Fantasia was restrained and idiomatic in her smoky renditions of such standards as "Stormy Weather" and "I Can't Give You Anything But Love."

Sharing the stage with Fantasia is Dulé Hill, who as it turns out is a Broadway veteran, having among other stage gigs understudied Savion Glover in The Tap Dance Kid. Hill's smooth charm and pleasant singing voice raise him far above the dismissive charge of stunt-casting. (For those of you who, like me, don't watch television, Hill was featured on "The West Wing" and currently stars in "Psych.") Another major highlight of show in Tony winner Adriane Lenox (Doubt), essentially playing the lighter side of Ethel Waters with the delightfully sassy numbers "Don't Advertise Your Man" and "Where You Stayed Last Night."

Another delight from After Midnight comes in the form of the on-stage orchestra, the astounding Jazz At Lincoln Center All-Stars, conducted here by Daryl Waters. (Artistic director, Wynton Marsalis) Carlyle and company go out of their way to showcase the various members of the band, to the point where the orchestra even gets the final bow. What a pleasure it is to go to a show in New York in which the orchestra is more than just a supporting character. Here, they shine individually and as a whole, with numerous moments throughout the show to show their respective talents.

A good portion of the authenticity of After Midnight comes from the lushly orchestrated and lovingly performed music, much of which comes from the catalogues of Duke Ellington, Harold Arlen, and the various collaborations bewteen Dorothy Fields and Jimmy McHugh, all of whom contributed extensively to Cotton Club revues during their careers.

What really gives After Midnight its effervescent tang are Carlyle's plentiful and high-octane dance numbers, including everything from swing to tap to novelty numbers. The tap here is sensational, particularly when dynamo Dormeshia Sumbry-Edwards is on-stage. There's even a high-sprited homage to the marvelous Nicholas Brothers, featuring Daniel J. Watts and Phillip Attmore. (If you've never seen The Nicholas Brothers in the movie Stormy Weather, you haven't truly lived. Fred Astaire called this the best dance number ever to appear on film.) One minor misstep came in the form of a rather bizarre interpretive dance that had the otherwise arresting Karine Plantadit rising form the dead and dancing around her funeral procession. Plantadit is terrific, and the dance is sharp, but the moment is decidedly odd.

But in general, After Midnight is all about having a grand old time. Hey, if you're looking for social history, try Francis Ford Coppolla's underrated 1984 film, "The Cotton Club." But if you're looking to have a fabulous time watching great performers and immersing yourself into the delights of a bygone era, you might just want to give After Midnight a try.

Review - Closer Than Ever at the York Theatre Off Broadway

During its current season, the York Theatre Company has been featuring what it describes as "classic shows from Off-Broadway." Currently playing at the York is Closer Than Ever, a rich and vibrant revue from the songwriting team of Richard Maltby, Jr. (lyrics) and David Shire (music).

Closer Than Ever opening at the Cherry Lane Theater in 1989 and ran for 312 performances, yielding an indelible original cast recording, one that became a favorite for me and many of my theater friends.

But here's the thing about that word "classic." If a show that opened three years after I graduated college is now considered a classic, then that means that I have officially become a classic myself. Sort of a hard realization to come to, although I take solace in noting that I am extremely well-preserved.

It's really appropriate that Closer Than Ever, one of the major themes of which is facing the realities of adult life, should provide such a personal realization. The show is essentially a revue composed of trunk songs and random numbers that Maltby and Shire had written over the years, and represented a worthy and in many respects more satisfying follow-up to their earlier revue, Starting Here, Starting Now. It almost seems as though the songs for Closer Than Ever were written to be part of the same show, they fit so well together stylistically and thematically.

The themes that emerge are adult in the most fulfilling sense of the word: the complexities of mature romance, the insecurities of modern life, the minor demons that dwell just below the surface of so many seemingly high-functioning people. The result is a wonderfully rich and intelligent series of human stories, qualities that are so evident in the score to Maltby and Shire's first Broadway musical Baby, and so utterly lacking in their score to their only other Broadway show to date, Big.

For the original production of Closer Than Ever, Maltby shared director credit with one Steven Scott Smith. Here he handles the task alone, and his hand here is extremely sure but delicate. The pace is brisk but never rushed, and there's a remarkable economy to the staging. Matlby seems intent on letting the material and the performers shine, and that's exactly what happens.

Few lyricists are as deft as Richard Maltby when he's on his game. The richness of Closer Than Ever comes directly from Maltby's smart and insightful words, as well as the depth of characterization therein. But where would Maltby's lyrics be without David Shire's deceptively effortless music? Shire matches Maltby song for song with music that sets the tone and enhances the impact of Maltby's wise and clever words.

Aphorisms suffuse nearly every Maltby lyric ("Whichever choice you make, the longing is a given," "Streams of next times don't make one today."), but they rarely come off as preachy. There's also plenty of evocative imagery ("Seals are dancing in my flesh," "Only snag in all this lace"). True, there's maybe an overabundance of '70s and '80s psychobabble ("Suffused with a mystic glow"), but that's perhaps intentional on Matlby's part. These people are, after all, products of their time and place.

As big a fan as I am of Maltby, and of Closer Than Ever in particular, the show features two songs that have always felt entirely too saccharine to me, too ham-fisted in their sentimentality. One of these is "If I Sing," Maltby's homage to his father, the renown conductor. The other is "Fathers of Fathers," a treacly song rightly cut from Baby. Both songs feel overly cloying and pat in a show otherwise replete with hard-eyed wisdom and complexity.

This production of Closer than Ever features some fairly significant changes, deletions, and additions. There are a few new lyrics here and there, mostly to update the cultural references ("And so I dug out mom's Jane Fonda," "Angela's husband calls Glenn Beck a hero"). One of the characters in "March of Time" has become a lesbian, and the turgid "Like a Baby" has thankfully been cut. For new material, there's a new male solo called "I'll Get Up Tomorrow Morning," which is about resilience in the face of life's many challenges. The song meant well, but didn't really go anywhere. There's a new song called "There's Something in a Wedding" that sets up the matrimony sequence in the show, and it was fine but unmemorable.

The best new song is called "Dating Again," and features all four performers in a brisk round robin of speed dating for those who suddenly and unexpectedly find themselves back on the market. The lyric is classic Maltby: marvelously wry and reflecting so much human understanding. ("Wondering if he'll call me and hoping that he won't.")

Of course, with a show this intimate, all the great material in the world isn't going to make the show work without a solid cast. The current production of Closer Than Ever boasts a thoroughly professional and appealing cast. Two of my latest theatrical pet peeves are indistinct articulation and over-singing, and the four performers here thankfully had crisp diction and controlled but intense singing styles.

The highlight for me in the cast was Jenn Colella, in the track originated by Sally Mayes. Colella is fast becoming one of my favorite performers with her humor, presence, and personality. Colella was a highlight in both High Fidelity and Lucky Guy, two otherwise unfortunate productions. (Would someone please write a book show that's worthy of this woman?) Here, she gives a delightfully restrained rendition of "Miss Byrd," and a deliciously naughty take on "Back on Base." Also strong was Christiane Noll in the Lynne Wintersteller track. Noll was one of the best parts of the underrated Broadway revival of Ragtime, and here she brings a very similar sense of intensity and honesty to "The Bear, the Tiger, the Hamster and the Mole" and, most notably, in "Life Story."

The gentlemen in the cast, while professional, had a few more...well...snags amid the lace, as it were. Sal Viviano in the Brent Barrett role was clearly trying too hard, at least at first. He seemed to think that every line of every song needed a movement or an indication, although this became less noticeable as the show progressed. Viviano also sported a broad Vegas-y smile during the song, "What Am I Doing?," which is an odd choice considering that the song is about a stalker, one who knows that what he's doing is crazy. George Dvorsky, in the part originated by Richard Muenz, also got a bit forced and overly hand-y at times, but he more than compensated with moments of intense emotional clarity.

Closer Than Ever plays at the York through July 14th. If you can't make it, rest assured that the show will be recorded. Either way, Closer Than Ever is a refreshing respite from the overblown spectacles and underwritten movie treatments passing for entertainment on the main stem.

Posted with Blogsy

Review - Ten Cents a Dance at the Williamstown Theatre Festival

The songbook revue is both the easiest and the hardest type of theatrical show to pull off. "Easiest" because you seemingly just throw together a bunch of songs and let the audience revel in waves of nostalgia. "Hardest" because, if you don't want the audience tuning out after the first few numbers, you need to come up with some kind of through line or production concept to hold people's attention.

The best revues often find a sense of structure from within the material (Side By Side By Sondheim). Others recreate a joyous sense of time and place (Ain't Misbehavin'). Still others take preexisting songs and find a way to bring them together to tell a completely new story.

Actually, I can't think of another example from this sub-genre, other than the wistfully entertaining Ten Cents a Dance, a newly devised revue that director John Doyle has coaxed forth from the glorious songbook of Rodgers and Hart. The show recently finished up its initial run at the Williamstown Theatre Festival, and is headed next for the McCarter Theater in Princeton, New Jersey. But based on the glowing review Ben Brantley gave the production in The New York Times, as well additional strong notices from The Boston Globe and other outlets, don't be surprised if the show eventually makes its way to New York City.

From where I sat, Ten Cents a Dance more than deserves its high praise. Part of the enjoyment for me was in figuring out what the relationships were among the various individuals onstage, so I'm going to bury my take on all that later in this post, in case you want to figure it out for yourself. (And, hey, who says my interpretation is right, anyway?) So, if you want to preserve the sense of discovery, stop reading here. Suffice it to say that I think the show is well worth the trip to Princeton, or worth the wait for the seemingly inevitable Manhattan production.

So, for those of you who are still with me, Ten Cents a Dance begins with a slow, pensive opening. Doyle establishes from the outset that this show is not in any particular hurry, preferring instead to luxuriate in the sounds of the music, and gradually reveal the underlying themes. The show features one male (Malcolm Gets) and five female performers (including Broadway legend Donna McKechnie and rising star Lauren Molina). Doyle also makes clear from the start that, among the emotional overtones that will emerge, the predominant feeling will be a palpable sense of loss and regret. (Not everyone will appreciate the languorous pacing. My sources tell me that, at one performance, a woman in the audience impatiently and repeatedly enjoined Malcolm Gets to "Say something!" as the opening sequence lingered on.)

Of course, when you hear "John Doyle show," you might automatically think "actors playing musical instruments," and in this instance you'd be correct. There are those who consider the whole actor/musician device a gimmick whose time has long since passed. I am not one of those people. I approach it like any other production device: Does it work for the show at hand?

And here, it works. Gets plays "Johnny," who would appear to be a bandleader of some sort, or at least a metaphorical bandleader, looking back on one especially momentous collaboration, with the women in the show become the members of Johnny's band. (Yes, this has been done before in Nine, but, hey, everything's been done before.)

The program lists the five women in the show as "Miss Jones 1," "Miss Jones 2," etc. Each female performer wears a slight variation on the same costume design. Clearly, they're all meant to be the same woman, each at a different stage of the relationship. Or perhaps the grieving process, as this is clearly a romance that ended on a sorrowful note. There's the idealistic young woman (Molina) flush with the glow of new love. The three middle females each represent some intermediate stage of regret, disappointment, and rage. And finally we have the resigned and forgiving older woman (McKechnie), who visibly intercedes when the others become too harsh.

And the wonder of all this is that the backstory comes out through the staging and the performances. The actors speak few if any words. Doyle has ordered the songs to follow the arching sine curve of the relationship. For instance, at one point the ladies join together in a rousing rendition of "To Keep My Love Alive" (from A Connecticut Yankee), which builds in bitterness until Johnny interrupts with a palliative "This Can't Be Love" (from The Boys from Syracuse). The juxtaposition succinctly reveals Johnny as a manipulative charmer, and the cohort of ladies as a bit of a survivors' group. The show as a whole features many such apt pairings and groupings, making it almost seem as though the songs had been written specifically for this show.

Of course, we know better. These are the glorious cream of the voluminous output of Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart. The melodies remain haunting despite years of familiarity, and the lyrics reveal nuance upon nuance, from a lyricist who could sometimes be more clever than evocative. The irony, of course, is that these songs all come from an era when theater songs weren't always written for context, but rather as potential hits. That these songs genuinely seem embedded within Doyle's devised story gives testament to some latent power on the part of Rodgers & Hart to craft songs that not only resonate but also transcend.

A few minor quibbles: The musicality was a bit wanting at times, possibly because most of the cast members were forced to play multiple instruments to accommodate the arrangements. (Ms. McKechnie in particular seemed incapable of maintaining the beat when she was on percussion.) And the vocal cutoffs were wildly inconsistent throughout the show. But, for the most part, this is a haunting show, a testament to the power of classic songs and smart conception. 

Review - The Best Is Yet to Come at 59E59

We don't see a lot of revues any more. There was a time, some 80 to 90 years ago, when musical revues were a staple of the Broadway theater scene. Of course, this was when "book musicals" were on the ascendant, and they eventually supplanted both revues and operettas, essentially by morphing them together into a new hybrid: musical comedy, and eventually the musical play.

The days of topical revues, shows with content created specifically for that production, are pretty much gone. Every once in a while we get a show like NEWSical or When Pigs Fly. The type of revue we're most likely to encounter these days is the songbook show, featuring the catalog of a particular composer (Sondheim on Sondheim), writing team (Closer Than Ever and Maltby and Shire), or performer (Ain't Misbehavin' and "Fats" Waller).

And songbook shows are hard to pull off. At their best, they capture the feel of certain time period, as does Closer Than Ever with the late '80s/early '90s, quite handily in fact. Or they convincingly celebrate a particular larger-than-life personality; Ain't Misbehavin' is surely the best of these. At their worst, songbook revues are rote, chronological slogs with plastic performers and leaden material. It takes a lot more than just a piano and a bunch of stools, to paraphrase a number from Upstairs at O'Neal's, a patchy but intermittently inspired revue from the early 1980s. 

I recently had the chance to see The Best Is Yet to Come: The Music of Cy Coleman just before it closed last weekend at the 59E59 Theaters. I had a few minor issues with the presentation, but overall I found the show to be 85 minutes of virtually non-stop delight and charm. (However, I do find that title to be a rather odd choice for a show that celebrates the work of a man who died in 2004.)

The Best Is Yet to Come was "devised and directed" by David Zippel, who wrote the lyrics to Coleman's City of Angels, and thankfully Zippel has eschewed the use of interstitial patter. You know: "Cy Coleman was born Seymour Kaufman in 1929..." Yeesh. Instead, we get a straightforward celebration of Coleman's music. Show queens might quibble with the song selection: not enough of this show, too much of that. But what really matters in a show like this is the thematic flow of the material and the overall pacing, both of which were strong. The crisp staging by Lorin Latarro was minimal but very effective, which was typical of the admirable restraint of the production as a whole.

Oh, except for the show's hyperbolic promotional materials, which promise a "dazzling musical extravaganza" and say of Cy Coleman that it is "arguable whether any one person has given more pleasure to more millions." Um...really? Yeah, that's "arguable," all right, and I would argue in the negative, not out of any lack of respect for Coleman, but rather because I loathe marketing blather. "Given more pleasure to more millions"? Did an intern write that? Because it's just plain awful, both syntactically and semantically. 

Gushy gooey marketing-speak notwithstanding, I've always loved Cy Coleman's work. I take unqualified delight in Barnum, On The Twentieth Century, and City of Angels. I find much to enjoy in The Life, I Love My Wife, Little Me, Wildcat, Seesaw, and The Will Rogers Follies, although all are significantly flawed. And I remain an ardent fan of what is probably his best known work, Sweet Charity, although the show itself seems to have fallen from favor, at least since its lackluster 2005 revival with Christina Applegate. The Best Is Yet to Come featured numbers from most of these shows, plus some of Coleman's non-theatrical hits, such as "Witchcraft" and the show's title song. 

Beyond the material and the presentation, the show's chief assets were three remarkable female performers, all of whom are not only strong singers but also delightfully nuanced song stylists. It was great to see Sally Mayes on stage again. I probably haven't seen her since the 1994 revival of She Loves Me, and she remains in remarkably fine voice, a voice that has so much character to it. Rachel York is always a pleasure onstage, and for the most part here she was a wonderfully dynamic presence. Her vocal tics got a bit repetitive, particularly the one in which she starts a vowel sound with her lips covering her teeth, then slowly draws her lips from crown to gum, to shape the diphthong. (Everything in moderation, Ms. York)

For me, the highlight of the show was the glorious Lillias White, who brought sass and sparkle to every number she was in. She performed the song that won her the Tony Award, "The Oldest Profession" from The Life, in its entirety, much to my delight, as well as that of the rest of the audience. Her most recent role, that of the noble mother in Fela, didn't begin to tap into what this marvelous woman can do onstage, and it was a joy to see her display here so much more of what makes her a consummate performer.

I ask you: How could the men of the cast compete? Well, the guys certainly held their own, but with varying degrees of success. David Burnham provided an infusion of young blood amid the seasoned pros, but he was a bit outclassed. Howard McGillin has always had such a superb voice, and thankfully it remains in fine form. McGillin was far less stiff here than I remember him being in the past, moving with far greater fluidity and charm. (Full disclosure: At one point in the show, McGillin was handing out roses to the ladies of the cast, and at the last second, he turned to the audience and threw the last rose to me. Might this have tempered my view of Mr. McGillin's performance? Well, fiddle-dee-dee...)

A significant revelation for me was Billy Stritch, who acted as musical director, onstage pianist, and vocal performer for the show. I had never seen Stritch live, and it was a real treat. His style is so remarkably smooth, richly embodying the subtle performance stylings that seem to have fallen from favor, although not with me, I can tell you that. I could listen to Billy sing all night, without amplification, histrionics, or power flourishes. The breath control. The effortlessness. Forget the belters, kids. Here's the kind of subtle and sustainable singing that's worth emulating.

The Best Is Yet to Come wrapped up a seven-week run at 59E59 this past weekend. No word yet on whether there will be a cast recording, but I'm really hoping there is one. It's not often you get a chance to hear this many great songs performed by a cast of this caliber.

Review - Pins and Needles at The Foundry Theatre

Every once in a while, I see a production that reminds me of what theater can really be. I'm not talking about commercial theater. I'm talking about theater in its purest form, which, at least for me, is about connecting with people and their stories and about communicating important and challenging ideas.

But this past Saturday, I had the great pleasure of attending a show that accomplished both, putting forth a slate of real and courageous people and presenting a series of ideas that, while not new, are just as important now as they were when the show in question was first produced.

That show is Pins and Needles, a topical revue that first appeared in 1937, and which at one time was the longest-running show on Broadway (at 1,108 performances), until Oklahoma! came along and nearly doubled the record. This left-leaning satirical show featured music and lyrics by Harold Rome, and sketch material by Rome, Marc Blitzstein, John Latouche, and others. One remarkable thing about the show was that it was performed by theatrical amateurs, a rotating series of members of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union. These days, the show is primarily remembered for its 25th anniversary cast recording featuring the vocal stylings of a young Barbra Streisand.

Otherwise, Pins and Needles has virtually disappeared from the theatrical landscape, apart from a few scattered productions by Off-Off-Broadway companies. I include Pins and Needles in my unit about the rise of the satirical musical show in the 1930s, but until now I've never had a chance to see it live. So, when I read a Playbill article about an upcoming production, I immediately bought a ticket. The article mentioned that the show would be performed at The Foundry, a theatrical collective in Brooklyn, and by an African-American group called FUREE (Families United for Racial and Economic Equality). The article also said that this production would comprise original material from the 1937 production, with additional material by Pulitzer-Prize winner Lynn Nottage, among others. Frankly, they had me at Pins and Needles, but the rest of the details only served to fuel my interest.

When the show started, I immediately sensed that something was amiss. The performers were...how can I put this...not polished. In fact, they were clearly rank amateurs. The production values were actually quite strong: the lighting, costumes, setting, and musicians were all thoroughly professional. But the cast was clearly not. The acting was a bit stiff, the diction was fuzzy, and some of the cast members could, frankly, barely hold a tune. At first I was confused, but then something funny started to happen. I got caught up in the raw but joyful enthusiasm of these wonderfully real people. I reminded myself that the original piece was performed by amateurs, and I found myself wondering whether the original cast was as endearing as these passionate people who proceeded to win me over and, eventually, blow me away.

Director Ken Rus Schmoll and dramaturg Melanie Joseph, the latter of whom is also the artistic producer of The Foundry Theater, have taken the original Pins and Needles and adapted it for an all-African-American ensemble. They've retained much of the original score, and a few of the sketches, and supplemented these with period songs and adapted scenes that illuminate the black experience, both of the 1930s and of today. Purists might balk at such liberal artistic license, but the original production of Pins and Needles was at all times a work in progress. Numbers came and went, as did scenes, based on topicality and the changing political landscape. So Rome, Blitzstein, Latouche and their collaborators would probably have been just fine with the idea of re-purposing their material for such a worthy effort. In fact, I think they would have been thrilled.

The whole piece came together for me during an entirely new scene toward the end of the show. Five of the performers perch themselves behind music stands and tell the stories about how they became activists. It could have been didactic and dull, but the stories, as adapted here by Sara Zatz, helped drive home the message that these weren't just performers. They were the actual people who were living out the stories that they were presenting. Apparently, FUREE started as a group of local activists from the projects around New York City, with the common goal of improving the living conditions in public housing, but the mission of the group has since expanded to include empowering the people of the projects to take ownership of their surroundings and of their lives. I found myself remarkably moved finding out about the real struggles of these enthusiastic performers. How often does theater afford you such an opportunity?

Beyond the performers, much of the material from the original Pins and Needles is just as relevant today as it was in the '30s and '40s, including sections about immigration, union busting, and Welfare. The last of these really hit home for me, as right before my New York trip, I had had a vivid discussion on the subject with my father. My dad, a staunch conservative, loves to collect and retell stories about Welfare cheats. Most recently, he told me about a woman who deliberately had an increasing number illegitimate children until she was getting $100,000 a year in public assistance. Of course, my father falls victim to the typical conservative ploy of taking one data point and making generalizations. I have no idea whether the story is true, but even if it is, every system has the potential for abuse. Does that mean we throw out the baby with the bathwater?

I really wish my father had been with me at Pins and Needles. Here were the stories of the people who don't want a handout. They want a chance. A chance to make a life of their own. As one song lyric from the show puts it, "I don't want your millions, mister. I just want my job back." Connecting with people and their stories. That's what theater is all about.

Pins and Needles has two more performances this Friday and Saturday at 7:30 PM. If you go, remember, these aren't AEA pros. These are real people, with a genuine and heartfelt connection to the material they so joyfully present. I hope you find it as transformative as I did.

As Thousands Cheer and the 1930s Revue

Yes, folks, it's that time of the semester again: staged-reading madness!

Regular readers will likely recall that, as part of my musical-theater history course at the Boston Conservatory, my students take part in a staged reading of a historically significant but relatively unknown or even forgotten musical. The idea is to expose them to shows that they otherwise might not have a chance to perform in, or even see. I usually like to say that if I tell people the name of the show I'm directing, and that person has actually heard of it, then I have failed.

Now, this isn't entirely true, but it conveys the essence of my goal. The inaugural show in this series, in the fall of 2009, was the George M. Cohan musical Little Johnny Jones (1905). Last semester we did Very Good Eddie (1915), one of the influential "Princess musicals," with scores by Jerome Kern. Not exactly top-of-mind theater fare, but nonetheless historically significant in the development of the musical-theater form.

This semester, I wanted to do a topical revue, a very common genre in the 1920s and 1930s, although the form has since virtually disappeared. These shows essentially grew out of the lavish Broadway revues that sprang up between the two world wars, the most famous being those of Florenz Ziegfeld. Other entrants in this genre included Earl Carroll’s Vanities, George White’s Scandals, and the Shubert brothers’ Passing Show series. The revues of the '20s were mostly escapist fare, although they did contain the occasional nod to topicality and social relevance.

The 1930s were a time when the Broadway revue would reach both its maturity and ultimate decline. The standard formula featured marquee-value stars, tuneful scores, and copious dance. Add in plenty of vaudevillian-style humor and some stunning visuals – in the form of lavish sets and costumes, and a brace of pulchritudinous showgirls – and the stage was set for a grand night at the theater. The least interesting revues of the ’30s were little more than variety shows. But the most compelling were an art form in themselves, reflecting a cohesion that brought all the elements together into a unique experience, often one with a lot more on its mind than mere entertainment.

In the transition from the '20s to the '30s, the tone of shows on Broadway changed a great deal, and the revue form followed suit. With the advent of the Depression, left-leaning creators co-opted the musical art form to decry, lament, and otherwise comment on the seeming collapse of capitalism. Among the more satiric revue offerings were Pins and Needles, Life Begins at 8:40, and As Thousands Cheer, the last of which the students of my musical-theater history class will be presenting this Saturday and Sunday at the Boston Conservatory.

Fresh from the success of their well-received Face the Music (which features an unscrupulous producer who wants to deliberately produce a flop show - sound familiar?), composer/lyricist Irving Berlin and librettist Moss Hart turned their satiric eye to the events of the day. They chose as their framing device the daily newspaper. Each of the scenes and songs in the show was preceded by a newspaper headline, with sketches that poked fun at wide variety of subjects, from the marital woes of Barbara Hutton ("Barbara Hutton to Marry Prince Mdvani") and Joan Crawford ("Joan Crawford and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. Announce Divorce"), to Gandhi and Aimee Semple McPherson ("Gandhi Goes on New Hunger Strike"), to an embittered President and Mrs. Hoover leaving the White House ("Franklin Delano Roosevelt Inaugurated Tomorrow"). The score featured what would become some of Berlin's most popular songs, including "Easter Parade" (The Rotogravure Section) and "Heat Wave" ("Heat Wave Hits New York City").

But the most memorable, and heartbreaking moment in the show comes in the second act. An African-American woman sings what initially seems to be yet another "He Done Me Wrong" torch song, but at the end of the song the headline reveals the stark truth: "Unknown Negro Lynched by Angry Mob in Mississippi." The song is the simple but stunning "Supper Time," and we have the great fortune of having BoCo junior Lori Tishfield to perform it. (Mark that name my friends. Some day soon you will see it in lights.) As Thousands Cheer was the first Broadway show to give an African-American star, in this case the legendary Ethel Waters, equal billing with whites.

The original 1933 production also featured Marilyn Miller, in her final stage appearance before her premature death, as well as Clifton Webb and Helen Broderick. The show ran at Irving Berlin's Music Box Theatre for some 400 performances, which was pretty impressive for a show that opened in the heart of the Depression. The show has had only one significant revival, in 1998 at New York's Drama Department. That production was directed by Christopher Ashley and featured musical staging by Kathleen Marshall. The cast included Kevin Chamberlin, Judy Kuhn, Howard McGillin, Paula Newsome, Mary Beth Peil and B. D. Wong, and it produced the show's only original cast recording. (Cast recordings didn't really catch on until the 1940s with Oklahoma, although both Pins and Needles and The Cradle Will Rock were recorded prior to that.)

So, hey, if you're in the 'hood, and want to see a show that you otherwise might not have a chance to catch, why not head down to the Boston Conservatory. The show is this Saturday at 9PM and Sunday at 7PM, both in the Zack Box Theater at 8 The Fenway. We'd love to see you there.

Review - Sondheim on Sondheim at the Roundabout Theatre

At the Nederlander Theater on 41st Street, Million Dollar Quartet is attracting enthusiastic, albeit heavily discounted, audiences of rock and roll faithful to witness a recreation of a mythic night with four rock icons. Thirteen blocks north, at the Studio 54, Sondheim on Sondheim is holding court to a similarly enthusiastic, and discounted, audience of acolytes to the cult of Stephen Sondheim. While both shows have their respective merits, both are also ultimately for fans only.

Sondheim on Sondheim began its life with the unimaginably twee name of iSondheim, and is compiled by James Lapine, longtime Sondheim librettist and director. Lapine wisely opts for a thematic exploration of Sondheim's oeuvre rather than a staid "and then I wrote" format. The songs emerge from video discussions with the man himself, and offer interesting, if somewhat superficial, glimpses into the great man's life and creative process.

For instance, the song "Franklin Shepherd, Inc." from Merrily We Roll Along emerges from a discussion about the breakup of Sondheim's working relationship with director Harold Prince. After Sondheim reveals that he didn't have a serious romantic relationship until he was 60 years old, we get "Happiness" from Passion, which here becomes an amusing bi-curious daisy chain of love, requited and otherwise. And, although many people have assumed over the years that various aspects of Sondheim's work have been autobiographical, Sondheim insists that the only truly autobiographical song he ever wrote was "Opening Doors" from Merrily, which he says was about his early professional experience, as well as that of Mary Rodgers and Sheldon Harnick, during the 1950s. 

The video anecdotes feature many of the same tales that Sondheim aficionados have heard time and again. (e.g. How "Comedy Tonight" supposedly saved A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum single-handedly, and how Sondheim wrote at least three different songs for the finale of Company before settling on "Being Alive.") But there are also some interesting and instructive tips on song writing. At one point Sondheim explains the difference between lyrics and poetry: a reader can go over poetry multiple times to find shades of meaning, whereas a song lyric needs to work on a first hearing. The video screens also offer opportunities for apt scenic touches, including footage from the original "Passione d'Amour" movie, and a stunning array of assassination victims (including Harvey Milk and Benazir Bhutto) during "The Gun Song" from Assassins.

The video narration gets a bit ponderous at times, including some rather banal insights about how producing art is like having children, and about teaching being a sacred profession. But other video moments work quite stunningly, mostly those concerning Sondheim's strained relationship with his mother (who seems a rather horrid human being, at least based on the information in the show), as well as his bond with his substitute paternal figure, the great Oscar Hammerstein. This mother/father sequence features some rather shocking revelations and sweet reminiscences that I won't recount here, but this part of the show alone makes it well worth seeing, at least for the musical-theater faithful.

The cast of Sondheim on Sondheim features an awkward trio of admittedly talented headliners, although it's really not clear how they belong in the same show. Vanessa Williams was lovely and professional, but didn't really make a lasting impression. I felt rather sorry for Tom Wopat, a talented guy who here is saddled with the most ill-fitting song choices, including "Finishing the Hat" and "Epiphany," which didn't seem to have sufficient setup or purpose when I saw the show in early previews. Thankfully, the glorious Barbara Cook is always a pleasure to witness. Although her top notes are pretty much gone (hey, she's 82, for frig's sake), she still exhibits remarkable vocal control. Heck, I'll take attenuated Babs over the current crop of screaming Broadway belters any day. As she sang "Buddy's Eyes" from Follies, I took great pleasure when she got to the lyric "I'm still the princess. Still the prize." Yes, you are, Barbara. Yes, you are.

GRADE: B+ (A rich pleasure for theater geeks, but probably for fans only.)

iSondheim with Barbara Cook?

We've been hearing off and on about a new revue of Stephen Sondheim's work with the unbearably precious name iSondheim. The show is being compiled and directed by James Lapine, longtime Sondheim collaborator.

The show was originally supposed to run at Atlanta's Alliance Theater this past April and May, but that production was canceled because of the projected production costs and the weak economy. As the awful title implies, iSondheim was to have included a great deal of technology -- multimedia, video, projections, etc. -- featuring interviews with Sondheim himself, intermingled with live performances of songs from Sondheim's career. But the production requirements apparently made the show untenable for a regional, non-profit run in the middle of a recession. 

More recently, there's been chatter on the Rialto about a New York run for iSondheim, under the auspices of the Roundabout Theater, and starring none other than the glorious Barbara Cook, who would be making her first appearance in a non-concert, non-benefit Broadway show in nearly forty frickin' years. The show would also feature two additional singers, yet to be cast. The wonderful Liz Callaway was supposed to have starred in the Alliance run. Wouldn't it be great to see her treading the boards again? Perhaps with her equally marvelous sister, Ann Hampton Callaway?

However, iSondheim seems to have hit a bit of a snag, according to Michael Riedel's column today in the New York Post. Apparently, Mr. Sondheim himself isn't happy with the revenue percentage that the Roundabout wants from any future touring company of the show. Something tells me Steve is going to get his way; it would seem that the Roundabout needs this show -- financially and artistically -- a lot more than Sondheim needs the Roundabout. The good news is that the iSondheim name, according to Riedel, is very likely to change. He mentions that both Virtual Sondheim and Sondheim on Sondheim have been under consideration as replacement titles, although neither seems to be much an improvement. 

Here's hoping that the differing parties iron out their differences so that we can all get to see both Stephen Sondheim and Barbara Cook back on Broadway where they belong.