Cabin in the Sky
Music: Vernon Duke
Lyrics: John LaTouche
Book: Lynn Root
February 10-14, 2016
1776
Music and Lyrics: Sherman Edwards
Book: Peter Stone
March 30-April 3, 2016
Do I Hear a Waltz?
Music: Richard Rodgers
Lyrics: Stephen Sondheim
Book: Arthur Laurents
May 11-15, 2016
While it seems as if there’s a new Broadway revival of Gypsy every five minutes, London has not seen a production of the legendary musical since the original West End production closed in 1974. The musical, which tells the story of Rose Hovick and her two daughters, who would go on to become Gypsy Rose Lee and June Havoc, has been an instant classic since its 1959 Broadway premiere and contains one of the all-time great musical theatre leading roles. When I learned that Imelda Staunton would be headlining the first London revival in over 40 years, I decided to book my flight.
This new West End production is an import from the Chichester Theatre Festival, where Staunton and director Jonathan Kent previously collaborated on a successful Olivier-winning production of Sweeney Todd. The two also worked together on the UK premiere of David Lindsay-Abaire’s Good People. The critical response for Gypsy has eclipsed these two productions, garnering the sort of reviews that press agents can only dream about. Such notices can inflate my own expectations and lead to disappointment. Well, if anything, my expectations were exceeded. Imelda Staunton is giving a career-defining performance as Rose. Other Roses I’ve seen have given star turns (and were excellent), but Imelda just acts it. Her performance is epic in size, but unfailingly grounded. The cumulative result is one of the most searing star turns I’ve ever witnessed, and ranks among the top five performances I’ve ever seen in my theatergoing life.
The legendary cry “Sing out, Louise!” is heard from the back of the Savoy Theatre, and Staunton’s Rose, a diminutive spitfire, emerges from the shadows as though shot from a cannon. From these opening moments onward, there lurks a darkness in her, something a lot like rage, that sometimes rears its head at moments both expected and unexpected. These flashes sow the seeds for the inevitability of both “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” (harrowing) and “Rose’s Turn” (utterly devastating). But Imelda’s Rose is also charming, playful, resourceful, alert and unrelentingly maternal. Her singing voice is also up to the challenge, nuanced and warm on the ballads, but with the ability to fill the theater with a powerful, gritty belt when necessary.
In the lead-up to “Everything’s Coming Up Roses,” as favored daughter June elopes and the vaudeville act falls apart, Rose’s new plan to focus on Louise (out of spite, out of desperation) was met with some uncomfortable giggling by the audience, who seemed incredulous that this woman was even remotely serious. This nervous laughter turned to silent sheer terror within seconds as Rose beat June’s letter as though scolding a child, and again moments later as Rose grabbed Louise by the nape of her neck and forced her to bow on the line “Blow a kiss, take a bow…”
Her “Turn” was in another realm entirely. During the mock-strip portion, she alternated between mocking Dainty June and imitating Louise’s gestures from the “The Strip,” caustic, withering and crazed. In a performance filled with bold risks, Imelda’s greatest was a pregnant pause before the line “Momma’s gotta let go.” The audience sat compelled in pin-drop silence as Rose worked through her maelstrom of emotions. Every second was earned and never gratuitous, and it haunted me for hours afterward.
That Ms. Staunton is so tremendous is a wonder give than the production is using the detrimental revisions made for the 2008 Broadway revival. These changes made by librettist Arthur Laurents to accommodate Patti LuPone strip away both comedy and vulnerability, and make Rose more one-dimensional. (The brilliant Styne-Sondheim score remains untouched). It’s a testament to Staunton’s triumph that she manages to bring humor and considerable pathos in spite of these limiting alterations. For the record, a more traditional ending is restored and is staged in such a way that I was moved to tears.
Lara Pulver is a good Louise. If it’s a bit of stretch to see her playing a child, her performance becomes stronger as her character ages. She is at her best after she’s transitioned from awkward Louise to elegant Gypsy Rose Lee. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the final scene played better. Blessed with an exquisite voice, Pulver also adds some delicious flourishes to the end of “The Strip.” She has one especially thrilling moment: gawkish Louise clumsily drops her glove during the opening of “The Strip” and bends over to pick it up. A cat-call is heard from the balcony. She looks up and smiles. She’s suddenly aware of her own beauty and the impact of her own sexuality on an audience. Gypsy Rose Lee is born.
Peter Davison is a warm, ingratiating Herbie, tall and lovable, with a calming presence. There have been some complaints by West End critics about his singing, and I find it amusing that we live in a time where we expect Herbie to be a good singer. Dan Burton, who is the West End equivalent to Tony Yazbeck, is a sensational Tulsa, with eye-popping technique in all three departments and a superb American accent, to boot. The three strippers are a knockout comic trio, especially Louise Gold’s Amazonian Mazeppa, complete with deadpan Lady Baritone.
Kent’s staging doesn’t reinvent the wheel. It’s a traditional production in virtually every respect, but Gypsy is a tried-and-true classic and doesn’t need much tinkering. His great achievement here is in the work he has done with the actors, particularly in cultivating the central mother-daughter dynamics. Some of the original dances remain, while Stephen Mear has choreographed the rest in the spirit of Jerome Robbins (the most notable: a new, more elaborate “All I Need Is the Girl” for Burton). There is a somewhat reduced orchestration (no strings), which isn’t ideal, but doesn’t detract from the overall experience.
Imelda is worth the price of admission. I would go so far as to say she’s also worth the price of the air fare and accommodation. Beg, borrow or steal; whatever you have to do to get to the Savoy Theatre before November 28 (when this extended limited engagement is set to close). This is one for the history books and you do not want to miss it.
Also: there’s a new 2015 London Cast Recording. It sounds fantastic, and while it won’t supplant other recordings in the canon (namely the superlative original Broadway cast recording starring Ethel Merman), it offers a wonderful document for those of us who have seen the production.
Back in 2004, I had made plans to see the 5-time Tony-winning revival of Weidman and Sondheim’s Assassins just after Roundabout announced an extension through the fall. Within a couple of weeks, the extension was rescinded and I ended up not being able to get there. Whenever the production was mentioned in conversation over the next 8 years, I felt a slight tinge of regret – something I don’t feel very often when I don’t see a particular show. I had been an admirer of the original off-Broadway cast album, and found Sondheim’s exploration into the psyche of assassins and would-be assassins compelling, chilling and ultimately fascinating. So I often kicked myself for having missed it.
Late one night this last August while loafing around on Twitter, an announcement came through my feed that Roundabout would be presenting a one night only benefit concert of Assassins reuniting the entire 2004 cast, with Joe Mantello returning as director and Paul Gemignani as musical director. I don’t know that I’ve ever dropped more than a $100 on a theatre ticket, but decided I would treat myself to a rear mezzanine seat for $150. (Others paid much, much more for the privilege). I figured, especially since at the time I had only just recounted my regrets of missing the production, that this was something I had to see. No excuses. And as it would turn out, my buddy, Twitter maven, Sondheim enthusiast and professional crier Tyler Martins, bought a ticket for the seat right next to me.
As we took our seats for the concert, I couldn’t believe that more than three months had passed and the evening was finally here. To say I was excited would be an understatement. The evening was a staged concert with music stands and binders, with actors attired in all-black mufti and the orchestra (playing Michael Starobin’s excellent orchestrations) onstage. However, with a book this strong and a score this astounding – to say nothing of the brilliant company (with a game Annaleigh Ashford filling in for Mary Catherine Garrison as Squeaky Fromme), it didn’t matter.
The cast was superlative. Becky Ann Baker was a show-stealing riot as Sara Jane Moore, Mario Cantone was an appropriately loose cannon on Samuel Byck’s mad-man ramblings. My first experience seeing Denis O’Hare on stage was this summer in the Shakespeare in the Park revival of Into the Woods. While I thought he less than ideal as the Baker, he is gobsmackingly brilliant as Charles Guiteau, the unsettlingly upbeat shooter of James A. Garfield (his song is based on the actual poem he delivered at the gallows). Michael Cerveris, who won a Tony as John Wilkes Booth was excellent in the Lincoln scene, but utterly astounding in the final scene with Lee Harvey Oswald (Neil Patrick Harris).
During “Another National Anthem” Harris exited the stage and returned wearing a white tee-shirt as Oswald. This final scene, the culmination of the evening, is a fantasia in which the assassins past and future visit Oswald in the Texas School Book Depository in Dallas on November 22, 1963 to urge him to kill President Kennedy instead of committing suicide. Director Joe Mantello recreated the famed Zapruder film projection on Harris’ shirt, while the orchestra played the warped carnival waltz version of “Hail to the Chief.” This leads into “Something Just Broke,” a brilliant rumination by the show’s small chorus on the impact these assassins had on the rest of the world; how a major tragedy rattles us as a nation, leaves vivid memories like scars of where we were and what we were doing, and ultimately how we carry on (for me, I haven’t lived through an assassination attempt, but it brings to mind the events of 9/11).
I left Studio 54 numb, though I would have gladly paid for an encore.
There is a revival of Sweeney Todd currently playing London’s West End. If that news alone isn’t enough to get you on the first plane to England, let me explain further: there is a astounding revival of Stephen Sondheim & Hugh Wheeler’s epic Grand Guignol musical currently playing the Adelphi Theatre starring Michael Ball and Imelda Staunton.
Sweeney Todd is in my top three shows of all time; and I’m excited to see any production. And if I could, I would get on the next plane back to London to see this Jonathan Kent directed production again. Dark, unnerving and anchored by two strong central performances, this is a West End revival not to be missed, and a transfer to Broadway should be a no-brainer. The 1979 musical, considered by many (including yours truly), to be Sondheim’s masterpiece tells the story of a vengeful barber who transforms into a blood-thirsty killer, along with his enterprising accomplice and lover, Mrs. Lovett.
Ball is virtually unrecognizable as the deadly barber, both physically and vocally. In fact when he made his first appearance I wasn’t sure whether or not I was seeing an understudy. Admittedly, he wasn’t the draw for me to see the show and my expectations were low but I was more than surprised: Ball is astonishingly good. In the first scenes, we see the “bleeding nobody” brooding with rage, making his mental snap at the end of the first act quite chilling. His “Epiphany” was so intense that for the first time I wasn’t so sure if Mrs. Lovett was going to live to the end of the first act.
Peter Polycarpou plays the Beadle as a social climbing kiss-up rather than some bizarro creep. Peter Howe offers an unsettling portrait of warped piety and deviant sexuality as the Judge. James McConville is absolutely devastating as Toby. Gillian Kirkpatrick scores big as the Beggar Woman. Less effective are Lucy May Barker (think about the name) and Luke Brady as Johanna and Anthony, with lackluster renditions of “Green Finch and Linnet Bird” and “Johanna.”
However, for as good as Ball is in the title role, it is Imelda Staunton who makes this production a must-see. I knew we were in for something different when Staunton whipped out a dirty, empty glass bottle to use as a rolling pin in “The Worst Pies in London.” Her Lovett is unlike any other I’ve ever seen, more naturalistic and pragmatic. She didn’t play up the more comic aspects of the character, but still managed to be funny and find laughs in the most unexpected places. I know the show by heart, and Staunton kept surprising me right to the very end; a performance so indelible I can vividly replay it in my mind. Moments come to mind: her reaction to opening the trunk (which made a delighted audience applaud), the terror on her face during “Epiphany,” the chilling look on her face at the end of “Not While I’m Around,” and the master class of her final scene.
The dynamic between Staunton and Ball was extraordinary, with their scenes together the most memorable. Charged with sexual energy, their showstopping rendition of “A Little Priest” was less music hall romp than full out foreplay. This chemistry makes the finale all the more tragic. When the orchestra played the final chord, I sat there in awe for a good beat before bursting into euphoric applause.
Director Jonathan Kent has set this Sweeney in the 1930s. I’m not sure that the change in time period really adds anything to the piece, but it definitely doesn’t detract. The staging is much more traditional than John Doyle’s recent revival, but I knew as the opening “Ballad” was sung among the characters to each other as working class workplace gossip around London, that we were in for an stellar evening. His production is dark, stark and deliciously violent. Anthony Ward’s set is appropriate dark and eerie, and places the famed factory whistle right on stage. Ward’s costumes evoke the dirt and grime of a seedier side of Fleet Street, and serving the director’s vision quite well.
This production is billed as a strictly limited season, running six months through September 10th. It must be seen to be believed.
A cast album was recorded before performances start and was released in the theatre at or around opening night. Since it wasn’t available anyplace else, I made it a point before seeing the show to pick up a copy. It’s an impressive account of the production, specifically preserving many of Staunton’s finest moments – both spoken and sung. The recording sounds incredible, with some of the show’s sound effects audible (particular the furnace crackling in the final scene, and some truly hair-raising throat slittings). The major flaw is that for some reason the album is one disc. That’s unfortunate, but it doesn’t prevent the album from being a must-have.
The end of February is upon us, which means that my trip to London is only a few weeks away. The month of February was a busy one for everyone it seems, but I spent some of my time prepping for my flight and making arrangements to see friends old and new, as well as arrange to see some shows on the West End, including Matilda. It should be an exciting time, to say the least.
The Oscars are out of the way this year, and overall I’d say it was a rather weak year. The Artist failed to charm me as it has so many others (though I think it was crying out to be a 30s Astaire-Rogers type musical than a parody of 20s silents). I liked The Descendants very much (I have yet to be disappointed by Alexander Payne). I admired The Help, but mostly because of Viola Davis’ staggering performance. The Iron Lady was dreadful: the messy script, shoddy direction and lack of point made it a dull, superficial slog. Though Meryl won the Academy Award in a surprise upset, you’d be much better off watching The Hours or The Deer Hunter; or anything else she’s ever done. War Horse made me want to invest in glue, while I was greatly charmed by Midnight in Paris.
That said, I am bored with “awards season” in Hollywood. It’s about as tacky and contrived as the relentless string of Republican debates. They keep stretching it out, and adding more “prominence” to guild awards that are nice but not nearly worth the time spent fretting over them. Time will tell, as it always does, what is really long-lasting. Also, the telecast was just bland. The only bits I enjoyed were the Christopher Guest team’s The Wizard of Oz focus group sketch, as well as Emma Stone’s presentation. Ms. Stone was one of the only people who seemed like a human being on that stage Sunday night. Classiest speech of the night goes to Best Supporting Actor winner Christopher Plummer, whose performance in Beginners is warm, winning and quite deserving of our attention. Special kudos to his leading man, Ewan McGregor, who is constantly overlooked by awards bodies in spite of consistent excellence. Oh, and finally, Drive was excellent.
Carrie is back for another night at the prom. However, I made a full day of it. I visited with my good friend Chris Lavin, who works in the wardrobe department of Mary Poppins for a pre-show dinner/catch-up, then found myself making my to the Lucille Lortel for the first time. I don’t often go south of 42nd Street, so it took Tyler Martins and I a little bit of effort to find where we were supposed to go. There were several Twitter friends at the show this particular night, and we decided to head up to Midtown for a post-show drink.
Getting off the subway at 42nd Street, we deliberated in the cold night air as to where we should go. The usual names were bandied about until Joe Allen came into play. Emily Sigal and I both thought the place to be a perfect place to go given what the majority had just seen. Lo and behold, Tyler got a picture of my playbill with the original window card on the Joe Allen flop wall. So we started heading North on 7th Avenue, but soon Tyler and I realized that the gang wasn’t with us. Turning around we saw them talking to a young man in a business suit. We went back to see what was going on.
As it turned out the young gentleman, who was extraordinarily ebullient and even had braces on his teeth, was lost. He was trying to get to Pulse, but couldn’t seem to find where he needed to go. Well, as a group we decided we’d help him out. None of us seemed to know where he needed to go, but out came the smart phones and in an unexpectedly cheery sense of adventure, we set out to find where he needed to go. After some time we got him to where he wanted to go. He offered to bring us in and by us a round, but there was one among us who was not yet of age, so we regretfully declined. But, our man Flint, three or four sheets to the wind, I might add, insisted on hugging us all. We made our way to Joe Allen where we laughed about this occurrence until the place closed down. Only in New York…
The other night I went to see the revival of Death of a Salesman currently in previews at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre, which was an intense cathartic experience that I think I need to see again before I can justify writing about it. However, two things about this revival that fascinated me: the production uses the original set design of Jo Mielziner and the original music score by Alex North. The former is truly extraordinary, and it’s not as if director Mike Nichols is trying to replicate the original: all other elements of scenography are new. It was as if a new family had moved into the house. As for the North score, it is played live in the theatre by a small band off stage right, with a mournful, bluesy quality that subtly punctuates various scenes throughout. Get tickets and go. And go again.
And finally, it was announced that Stephen Sondheim was collaborating with David Ives on a new musical. That’s a Leap Day Miracle, however, I do take exception to something His Majesty said to a London paper regarding a dearth of plays in NY. He’s either just being cranky or not paying attention, but there have been plays popping up on and off-Broadway quite a bit this year. Just this Broadway season alone we’ve had Chinglish, Stickfly, Venus in Fur, Other Desert Cities, Seminar and can anticipate Clybourne Park, The Lyons, One Man Two Guvnors, Peter and the Starcatcher, and more in the coming weeks. And that’s not even counting the plethora of play revivals.
In 1981, Merrily We Roll Along opened and closed quickly, a devastating failure that became one for the record books. The day after it shuttered, the cast and crew assembled in the recording studio laying down a cracker jack original cast album that has created a generation of ardent fans of the show and score. In 1985, Stephen Sondheim revisited the show with his new collaborator James Lapine, who subsequently revised George Furth’s book, creating a new version of the show that was to fix the problems with the original. As a result some songs have been dropped, some reshuffled and the narrative brought into better focus, musically.
This resulting revision was what the City Center Encores! performed for its first show in the 2012 season (Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Pipe Dream and Jule Styne and Leo Robin’s Gentlemen Prefer Blondes are still to come), giving New Yorkers a rare glimpse into this greatly loved, greatly flawed gem that has, unlike the messy but fun Anyone Can Whistle, proven to be a somewhat workable musical. For one thing, Sondheim’s score, which features “Old Friends,” “Good Thing Going,” and “Opening Doors,” is just spectacular, and is one of the best ever composed for a failed show.
It’s the book, loosely based on a Kaufman and Hart play of the same title, which moves backwards in time that lends itself to the most criticism. The musical starts in 1976 and works its way back to 1957 (originally 1955, more on that later), with vignettes filling in the narrative gaps established in the tense opening scene. One of the reasons the show is so fascinating is that the plot hinges almost entirely on dramatic irony for context, taking us from the cynical, jaded and embittered former friends to the young, idealists who met on a NYC rooftop the night of Sputnik. The narrative doesn’t quite satisfy, as it feels like a morality play without a clear moral. But what Sondheim and Furth (and Lapine by extension) created feels like a fascinating experiment in form and structure, and while it doesn’t quite all gel as I’d like it, I’m so glad they created it. (If the narrative unfolded traditionally, it would be insufferable).
The cast is absolutely superb. Colin Donnell brings leading man charisma, good looks and voice to Franklin Shepherd, the ambitious composer turned film producer. Lin-Manuel Miranda is captivating as his best friend, collaborator and conscience Charley Kringas, who delivers one of the score’s most fascinating numbers, “Franklin Shepherd, Inc.” which was an electrifying showstopper in Miranda’s hands. Rounding out the trip of friends is Celia Keenan-Bolger, whose incisive interpretation of Mary Flynn, the alcoholic writer with a torch for Frank, is a knock-out. Ms. Keenan-Bolger is at all times devastating and hilarious, dropping one liners with great humor and unyielding depth.
As Frank’s wives, Betsy Wolfe and Elizabeth Stanley are also quite impressive. Stanley, in particular, is an sensation as Gussie Carnegie, the secretary turned Broadway chorus girl turned star turned has-been (in reverse order). Wolfe has a less flashy role, but sings beautifully and makes an incredible impression with the score’s most famous number, “Not a Day Goes By.” Adam Grupper makes a great impression as the producer.
Lapine directed the production, creating a clear and polished staging that works quite well and smoothens some of the rougher edges of the book, though I could have lived without the projections. I doubt we’ll see a better Merrily for quite some time. I do wish that Lapine and Sondheim would go back and take another look at that final scene. The show ends with the stirring “Our Time,” but the lead-in dialogue is unsatisfying and the stakes not yet at a level to warrant the stirring anthem which closes the show. Originally the trio had known each other in high school, but now they meet in this rooftop scene. Now after some perfunctory dialogue, the writers have thrust these characters into an intimacy that is premature, ultimately stunting the emotional potential of the scene.
Another reason to rejoice: Jonathan Tunick was brought in to work on the orchestrations, combining his originals with the score’s revisions for the first time, created what is probably the definitive reading of the score. I only hope someone considers a cast album of this production, as we’re not likely to have it better any time soon.
A timpani drumroll, a series of minor chords and then seemingly out of nowhere, a showgirl appears. This tall, lithe yet shadowy figure seems frozen in time and space, but as the music takes on a dreamlike quality, she starts to move. But slowly, ethereally; as if of another world. This is the first image of Follies and it seems that for the next two hours, I’m holding my breath in theatrical limbo. The evening is supposed to be a happy reunion of members of the Weismann Follies, but the stage of the dilapidated Weismann Theatre becomes an area for delusions to be exorcised, regrets to be revealed and for the uneasy acceptance that life doesn’t always turn out how we want it to.
Bold and beautiful, flawlessly flawed, Follies is a show with a cult following unlike any other musical I can think of (flops need not apply). The 1971 musical all but shocked audiences with its unsettling portrait of unhappy marriages and the disillusionment of middle age. There are ardent fans and ardent detractors, and it seems that whenever a production comes to NY, it becomes the talk of the town. Every song, character, line, production becomes the source of dissection and debate; comparisons abound. This marks the second time I have seen Follies live, and I realize that every time I have seen or will see the show, it will be at a different point of my life and that will inform my impact on my life. I have seen this production twice now: its first preview and its opening night.
The original Follies was a benchmark in grand production values and pushing the envelope of what a musical could be. Stephen Sondheim’s score has entered the upper echelon of musical theatre, with an astonishing mixture of pastiche and character numbers. James Goldman’s book, always a bone of contention for many, is like a surreal Altmanesque puzzle. There are characters roaming in and out, some performing their old numbers, while two main couples confront some unfinished business that has left their respective marriages unpleasant.
Bernadette Peters, while not ideal for Sally, offers a fascinating portrait of depression and mental illness. When she enters at the top of the show and timidly tells the waiter, “I’m so glad I came,” you’re not convinced she is. Sally is a tough sell, and always has been: she’s delusional, angry and disappointed at her life. She arrives at the reunion with one goal: to take Ben, for whom she’s held a torch for thirty years, from Phyllis. Peters starts the show in a darker place than anyone else who’s done the part. Jan Maxwell is a couth delight as Phyllis, brittle, sophisticated and yet the only one of the four who is willing to fight for the relationship. She’s less aloof than one usually expects in the role, but delivers exceptionally on the dialogue and especially in the searing “Could I Leave You?” Ron Raines lends his sonorous baritone to the emotionally stunted Ben. Standing out among this main quartet is Danny Burstein, a revelation as Buddy, Sally’s sad-sack husband. His pain and rage come to a head in “The Right Girl” and brings down the house with “Buddy’s Blues,” but even when he’s not speaking he’s saying oh so much. It’s a performance that will not soon be forgotten.
Starry support comes from grande dame Elaine Paige as Carlotta, strutting around the stage in a sexy blue dress and dropping one-liners like Mae West. Ms. Paige delivers the triumphant anthem “I’m Still Here” with an intensity that seethes with anger and defiance, scoring a mammoth showstopper. (One quibble about a lyric change in this particular song: I hate that Brenda Frazier has been replaced by Shirley Temple. The former is a pointed comment about the fleeting nature of fame, while the latter just feels like a cheap shot). Rosalind Elias, the former Metropolitan star is making a spectacular Broadway debut at 82 as Heidi Schiller, offering one of the evening’s most arresting showstoppers in “One More Kiss” (shared with Leah Horowitz).
Lots of old pros are on hand: Terri White, belting to the rafters and schooling the chorines in hoofing, leads the ladies in rousing “Who’s That Woman?” Susan Watson (on Broadway for the first time since No No Nanette), Don Correia, Mary Beth Peil and Jayne Houdyshell deliver a dynamite “Rain on the Roof/Ah Paree/Broadway Baby” montage. Florence Lacey and Colleen Fitzpatrick add color to ensemble.
Then there are the ghosts, the younger versions of the party-goers, showgirls who float in and out ethereally. Nick Verina has a baritone that perfectly complements Raines. Lora Lee Gayer has created a Young Sally who is uncannily similar to her older counterpart. Erin N. Moore makes quite an impression as Young Stella, as does Kiira Schmidt who practically steals “Buddy’s Blues” as Margie (wait for her slide!)
Eric Schaeffer’s direction is simple and too realistic, with a lot of moments placed in-one which tends to be a bit static. Some of his best work involves the ghosts, especially the moments where past and present intermingle or collide. Warren Carlyle’s choreography is stellar, if lacking in invention. “Who’s That Woman?” is a joyous showstopper but “The Story of Lucy and Jessie” doesn’t quite build as it should (though it’s better now than it was at the first preview). Gregg Barnes costumes are eye popping in their period detail and grandeur, contrasting well with Derek McLane’s eerie set. The literal unit set depicting the dilapidated stage is brilliant, but his Loveland motif is a bit underwhelming. McLane also deserves credit for effectively shrouding the gauche Marquis Theatre interior. Natasha Katz’s lighting design is sheer perfection. James Moore leads the dazzling 28 piece orchestra in Jonathan Tunick’s sublime original orchestrations, some of the most beautiful ever arranged for musical theatre. This alone is worth the price of admission.
The production would be better served if it was performed without an intermission: the tension organically simmers throughout the evening until it explodes into “Loveland.” Stopping for fifteen minutes kills that momentum. Also, it would be nice to see a production of Follies that actually uses the full original text. Various lines and pieces that have been excised add more layers to the characters, most especially several illuminating moments for Phyllis and Sally. But any quibbles I may have for this particular production are meaningless. Each time Follies reaches its sobering conclusion, I look forward to the next opportunity to see the show. The revival is currently scheduled as a limited engagement with a closing date of January 22. Whatever you do, do not miss it.
Tony-winner Alexis Smith. Follies. Original cast. Staged by Michael Bennett. Enjoy.
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My friends and regular readers are aware of the cool reception I gave Trevor Nunn’s revival of A Little Night Music that played the Walter Kerr last year. I don’t want to rehash all that again as the production is now closed and we can look forward to a better and brighter future as a result, but the highlight of that production to me was Angela Lansbury’s Tony nominated performance as Madame Armfeldt, a performance that I think was the only Tony-worthy aspect of the entire production (and her across the board rave notices seem to match my sentiments). Her character, Madame Armfeldt, has only one song in the show, “Liaisons,” but it is one of the most memorable of the entire score and one of my personal favorite Sondheim songs.
Ms. Lansbury made a special appearance in London at this weekend’s Olivier Awards to help present Stephen Sondheim with a special lifetime achievement award. Having seen this little news item on Twitter, I made it a point to tune in. The awards ceremony, which until this year had been an industry banquet, made significant changes and was televised for the first time in years (while simultaneously airing on BBC Radio 2, which is how I was able to chime in). There were some kinks in the format, as the early half of the evening relied far too heavily on colorless color commentators interviewing winners in lieu of focusing on the stage, but the performances were all quite interesting to hear, as were the incredibly brief but pitch-perfect acceptance speeches.
The award for Sondheim was saved until the very end of the evening, following the presentations of Best Musical and Best Play. Adrian Lester started the tribute by reprising “Being Alive” from his Olivier Award winning performance of Bobby in the Donmar Company of 1996. Cameron Mackintosh spoke at length about Sondheim’s work as well as their personal relationship before the impresario introduced Lansbury, who received a thunderous standing ovation on her entrance.
It seemed for a few moments that Lansbury was only there to present Sondheim with the award, but following his acceptance speech she delivered a staggering performance of “Liaisons.” Enjoy:
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