By R.C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Alexis Soloski
By R. C. Baker
By Alexis Soloski
By Tom Sellar
By Araceli Cruz
By Brienne Walsh
The millennium is finally dragging to its strict calendrical end, taking with it the century in which America altered the world's musical taste irrevocably. It's a good time to take stock, and New York's musical theater, where much of the alteration occurred, is a good place to start. Six musicals crowded their way onto the list of openings for the first two weeks of December, after which new theater events give way to holiday parties, so a good supply of specimens is available for study, comprising everything from a giant Broadway warhorse to a tiny workshop and an obscurity from the past in staged concert form. Taken together, they sum up a glorious history, paint a woeful picture of present conditions, and show enough signs of hope to make it clear that history could start turning glorious again any minutethough holding your breath while you wait would be ill-advised.
One thing's clear: We've come to the end of the road for one style of musical, the giant pseudo-Romantic pop-rock sludge pile. I never liked these things; now nobody likes them. As far as I'm concerned, Cats (closed) and Miss Saigon (expiring next month) have been flops all alongthe public simply didn't take my reviews to heart until now.
Mostly produced via London and bearing some sort of antique literary cachet, these musicals had little to do with Broadway tradition. They were mainly attempts to update with an amplified pop sound the century-long British tradition of failed operetta. In addition to famous-name subject matter, they tended to feature darker versions of the lavishness that had been the selling point of Ivor Novello's otherwise pallid 1930s and '40s spectacles. The need to bolster the form with a presold literary title indicates, not high-art aspirations or love of the past on the creators' part, but an insecurity about the salability of their product. Broadway musicals, when not created out of whole cloth or built round a specific star, tended to be based on current bestsellers or news events (Ferber's Show Boat, Michener's Tales of the South Pacific, Perle Mesta's ambassadorial appointment), or on once-loved works that had slipped out of the public eye (The Warrior's Husband, Street Scene, They Knew What They Wanted, The Matchmaker). Currency kept the form from being ponderous; relatively obscure source material freed it from the need to be literal.
A Child's Garden
By Louis Rosen, Arthur Perlman, and Charlotte Maier
Melting Pot Theatre
311 West 43rd Street
Forbidden Broadway 2001
By Gerard Alessandrini
Broadway and 51st Street
Nothing could be more literal than Jane Eyre, which we may hope will be the last of these pretentious pop sludge-piles to ooze across a Broadway stage. John Caird, who gets first billing as coauthor and codirector of the depressing object, was second in command to Trevor Nunn on Nicholas Nickleby (not a musical) and Les Misérables; his principal idea here seems to have been to turn Charlotte Brontë's quasi-Gothic female fantasy into a sort of Miz Nickleby. The actors march by as in Nickleby, reciting one line of narration apiece; Rochester's housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax, gabbles like a whole sextet of Thenardiers. Caird appears not to have noticed that Jane Eyrethe kitschy prototype of all Harlequin romancesis a different sort of creation from large, sprawling social novels with multiple plots, and might demand a different sort of treatment onstage. A closed-off work by a woman who led a comparatively sheltered life in the country, its events are projections of psychological fantasy, not products of observation. Told in the first person, it needs some imaginative mediating factor to move off the page; that's why the most successful film version of Jane Eyre is Val Lewton and Jacques Tourneur's I Walked With a Zombie (1943), which duplicates the novel's fevered compulsiveness with its shadow effects, shifting points of view, and mock-anthropological toyings with the occult.
Nothing so interesting happens in Caird's version, which trudges from one incident to the next, making predictable song opportunities (hymn here, waltz there, bravura aria there) for Paul Gordon's pallid, inbred music to exploit ineffectively. (This is a score that makes Andrew Lloyd Webber sound goodat least he knows three chords, where Gordon only seems to know two.) John Napier's scenery, an elaborate mix of projections and three-dimensional sliding objects about which much fuss has been made in the press, is the worst he has ever designed, ingeniously subtracting from the work any sense of either its haunted emotional atmosphere or the solid reality in which the haunting takes place. Even the climactic fire is unconvincing: A British experimental troupe that briefly infested BAM last year with an arch deconstructed version of the novel did it better by simply having Rochester's mad wife scatter down sheets of manuscript.
While great acting, in New York, is so often the art that makes lousy nonmusicals bearable, the pop-rock invasion and the flotilla of amplifiers that accompanied it have meant that inadequate musicals are now rarely rescued by great singing. If anything, the squalls and squeaks emitted by the speakers on either side of the proscenium archthese days they hardly ever seem to come from the actors' mouthsdo more than the authors and director can to spoil a musical's pleasure potential. Whether the pop-rock repertory of vocal tactics is or isn't musically valid in itself, the fact remains that virtually nobody since the time of Hair has been able to make it function for musical theater. For half a century, Broadway drew on a very wide range of voices and styles, from blues shouters and bopsters to opera singers, who relaxed into the vernacular without the condescending label of "crossover." The electronic straitjacket of amplification has shrunk the range of vocal techniques along with the composers' range of harmonies and melodic devices. ("I can't listen to Broadway songs anymore," a classical composer complained to me. "They're all anthems.")