By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
It doesn't really matter which of those two musicals you would rather see. The difference is in your relation to them, your part in the evening's transaction. The clowns who say "us," immediately, are on your side; the chorus girls who say "you," immediately, become employees facing you across a counter. This exchange of performance goods for cash is going to be strictly business, and no conspiracy to have fun together will be allowed to sneak across the tiny gap created by the former Selwyn's cozy orchestra pit.
Things are different at the former Alvin Theatre, where, as it happens, The Boys From Syracuse opened its original run in 1938. The Neil Simon is a much larger theater than the ex-Selwyn, and Hairspray, set at the dawn of the amplified-music era, a much more heavily technologized work than Rodgers and Hart's bit of Shakespearean foolery. But at Hairspray everyone involved seems to be doing something they love, and they wouldn't mind if you loved it too; the whole thing is a conspiracy to have fun. If they try to force the issue at one or two points, or fail to match their own best stuff at one or two others, you don't mind it so much, because the overall spirit is so good. You are rarely bullied, and often tickled. As a result, you leave feeling much better than you would if, as at the Roundabout, you went expecting to be tickled and instead were asked, inexplicably, to spend two hours sucking on the sour lemon of modern life and its problems. Why does the Roundabout do this? I don't know. But somebody might have pointed out that the tone and the substance of their material are a hopeless mismatch: In the hands of director Scott Ellis and his team, every bubbly Rodgers and Hart plus becomes a sardonic minus.
The Boys From Syracuse
Book by Nicky Silver, based on George Abbott's original, music by Richard Rodgers, lyrics by Lorenz Hart
American Airlines Theatre
227 West 42nd Street
Interestingly, the bitter problems of modern life are at the core of Hairspray's story, based on the John Waters film, universal knowledge of which relieves me of the obligation to retell the plot. Fat people in an America that idolizes the anorectic look, young black people on the cusp of the civil rights movement, shabby people struggling to get bythese are Hairspray's substance, and you can link their sorrows to every misery the modern world has to offer. Or you can do what Waters and his adapters have done, which is to link those sorrows to the transfiguring power of a fairy tale. The travails take place in a pastel-colored dream; the obstacles crumble away by endearing, doofus magic. The good guys win; the bad guys are punished or reformed. What did Miss Prism say? "That is what fiction means." Do we quibble and grumble because life outside the theater isn't like that? Of course not; we, too, want to become as little children again. And it's snotty for children to interrupt when a skilled storyteller is handing on a good yarn.
Hairspray's storytellers are uneven in their skill. They're a little too busy relishing their detailsthe grottiness of the low life, the bad-wig tackiness of the life that thinks itself highto be specific about how events get from here to there. How does it happen that the handsomest boy on the teen TV show falls for rotund Tracy? And how, precisely, does he find his way into the solitary-confinement wing of a women's prison to help her break out? No doubt there are explanations for these puzzles, storyboarded somewhere in the planning stages, and discarded en route when the glitter of the details and the pluck of the characters proved to be more enjoyable; the fairy tale is an elastic form. Anyway, explanations aren't always mandatory. Apply Feingold's Theorem: The more an audience wants to see something, the less justification it requires. Which is what makes art such a terrible responsibility. Sneaking in the nutrients, giving the junk food everyone craves a little gourmet flair, requires finesse.
The makers of Hairspray often display that finesse. O'Donnell and Meehan's lines do it more often than their scenes; Marc Shaiman's music, making tender love to every early-'60s rock trope, does it more often than his and Scott Wittman's lyrics. David Rockwell's setscan such large constructions be called impish?are virtually a school of finesse in themselves, and William Ivey Long's costumes show it off in every gathered ruffle. And Jerry Mitchell's choreography, like Shaiman's score, knows how a half-twist on the familiar moves can make them look new, turning a love song into a game of living statues or a Supremes-style trio into a Greek chorus.
Then there's the cast. To play a fat girl as a mere sight gag (even a sympathetic sight gag) is regrettably easy, and thousands of actresses of substance have been trapped in that humiliating position; Bernard Shaw was defending Gladys Homfrey from it back in 1894. Marissa Jaret Winokur, already a star in the glossy media, needs no defender, only the praise she deserves. The role is a godsend to women of her girth, but it wouldn't be seen as one if she didn't have the charm, the clarity, and the sense of joy to animate it. Fat people are often amazingly nimble dancers. Watching Winokur sing and dance, I frequently thought of the late Roy Brocksmith, best remembered here as the Streetsinger hoisted out of the pit at the start of Richard Foreman's Threepenny Opera production. Brocksmith's audition song was "You Took Advantage of Me," during which he used to shimmy like a bowl of pink Jell-O gone berserk. Winokur has both his free-form flamboyance and his emotional grit; I should like to see her play Jean Valjean, and don't intend to revisit Les Miz until she does.