Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (CD Review)

According to the invaluable StageGrade, the Broadway musical Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown received an average grade of C- from a total of 31 critics. While it's clear that Women on the Verge has no Tony Award for Best Musical in its future, it's a shoo-in for most underrated show of the decade. It's hard to suss out why a show doesn't land, though I have seen a number of theories posited about this one, including that it was overdirected and unfocused. My personal theory is that the show took too long to get to the women and lost the audience along the way. Also, it had an awfully non-Hispanic cast for a show that took place in Spain, and Danny Burstein's performance as the cab driver veered perilously close to racial insensitivity. (My review of the show is here.)

However, Monday morning quarterbacking is no less frequent--and no more useful--in theatre than in football, and whatever its faults, Women on the Verge had and has many strengths. To start with, as this welcome original cast recording from the excellent Ghostlight Records demonstrates, the score is top-drawer, with composer/lyricist David Yazbek once again combining wit and energy to write an audience-friendly, completely enjoyable score. From the overture on, this is a score that moves. It completely sells the group nervous breakdown of the title, while also being melodic, wry, and entertaining. The lyrics are flat-out fun and quite clever. My favorite song is "Lovesick," which perfectly expresses the feeling of insanity that can accompany unrequited love. For example:

You're sick of what you're saying.
You're sick of what you're thinking.
You'd have another drink
Except you're sick of what you're drinking.

And

You shudder, you tingle
The paramedic comes--
You wonder if he's single.

These lyrics--all of David Yazbek's lyrics--sit perfectly on his melodies, giving the emotion a compelling propulsion and totally pleasing the ear. And Sherie Rene Scott nails the vocal.

"Invisible," Yazbek's ballad of the disappearance of love, goes for poignancy instead of humor, and Patti LuPone does it full justice. Again, the lyrics are excellent. For instance:

You eat your lunch,
A year is gone.
You go to bed, ten years are gone
Then you wake up and wonder
Where is it hiding?
Where did it go?
I don't understand
The life I had wanted.
The life I was promised
The life I had planned?

Then I realized it--
It was invisible.

Then there is the wonderful, insane "Model Behavior," in which the wonderful, insane Laura Benanti plays the wonderful, insane Candela leaving a series of phone messages on her friend Pepa's answering machine. For example:

I'm feeling kind of woozy.
I've been crying for an hour.
And my boyfriend has an Uzi
And he doesn't clean the shower.

It's interesting to compare the performances on the CD with the live performances. Sherie Rene Scott comes across much better on the CD. She seemed almost lost in the show, but here she provides a full, textured character, and her singing is glorious (though her accent is still weak). Patti LuPone and Laura Benani were/are equally superb in both mediums. Brian Stokes Mitchell comes across less effectively on the CD, perhaps because his wry, self-mocking smile is not there to undercut the smarminess of the character.  Justin Guarini is equally likeable in both mediums. The 16-person orchestra, conducted by Jim Abbott, is a delight.

The physical presentation of the CD is absolutely top of the line. The 42-page, full-color booklet includes essays by Pedro Almodóvar, director of the movie on which the musical is based, and Frank Rich. There is a detailed synopsis, complete lyrics, and a slew of wonderful pictures. Original cast recordings are never a given--my heart still breaks that James Joyce's The Dead was never recorded--and many thanks are owed to Ghostlight Records and Sh-K-Boom for their commitment to the fabulous American art form of the musical and to its incredibly talented practitioners.

(Reviewer's copy.)

Baby, It's You

You can't swing a cat in the middle of Times Square without knocking down four women who could sing the Shirelle out of 60's, girl-group harmonies. How, then, did the producers of Baby, It's You audition every African American woman in New York City with an Equity card and not manage to fill a foursome? Who decided to scrape together a few random morsels of historical trivia, vomit them up a calorie at a time, and call it a meal? What, pray tell, were the folks over at the Broadhurst thinking?

I have no problem with the juke box musical, and I didn't have a problem with the concept or conceivers behind Baby, It's You. I loved their previous effort, Million Dollar Quartet. Not a great show. Anorexic script. Bare thread of fact stringing together an entire evening of brilliant performances. The formula worked, so there was every reason to believe lightning could strike twice. After all, they had the force of nature that is Beth Leavel at the heart of the show. But this ain't no Million Dollar Quartet. It's a buck fifty bootleg from the bad idea bin.

Neither the rise and reprise of the Shirelles nor the disproportionately hyped tale of Florence Greenberg do much to carry this show--neither can even pick it up and get it off the ground. The evening is all about the star of the show, not the character but the actress. Beth Leavel takes the stage, takes it away from anyone who dares to share, and leaves you wishing you could follow her off with every exit, just so you don't have to watch the live K-Tel commercial of historical and musical highlights that bridge her appearances. She does her best to add heart and relevance to the scenes, but it is hard to Lady Macbeth a bumper sticker. However, the woman can sing. She wraps her voice around a note, swaddling it gently as the baby Jesus in the manger, and blankets it with warmth and welcome. You could almost climb inside and lose yourself were you not engulfed in the relentless parade of hits--right between the eyes.

The men are more brick layers than artisans. Allan Louis lays a nice foundation for the The-More-You-Know lessons on fobidden love, creative pressure, and emasculation--not to mention the dangers of bangin the boss. Barry Pearl grounds the story from the start. Thirty seconds in and you want to cheat on him too (with another show); but he brings solid work to both acts, by which I mean that he acts twice. Geno Henderson and Brandon Uranowitz play multiple characters, such a shame Mr. Henderson seems to only have two characterizations in him. He's the equivalent of theatrical herpes--constantly threatening to appear, and you can't wait for him to just go away.

The Faux-relles (Erica Ash, Kyra Da Costa, Crystal Starr Knighton, and Christina Sajous), as I've mentioned, are simply unfathomable. Bad enough they can't handle the frog-ass tight harmonies that should be cost of entry, but there's not a triple threat among them--or between them. One, who shall not be named, couldn't stay on pitch if she were standing in it on the steps of the palace. Two of them would require transplants for a second left foot. Kelli Barrett, as All White Women Not Named Florence, was a fine daughter, but she wasn't the only one crying at the party during her Lesley Gore assassination.

The band was good.

Carole King must have known something I didn't. Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow was nowhere to be heard or found. She apparently said, "Keep your hands off my baby." Lesson learned, Carole.

Sister Act

How refreshing would it be to see a movie, a good movie at that, translated for the stage and not simply transferred to the stage? I might just drop to my knees and yell, "Whoopi!" Instead, I rose to my feet. To be fair, I stood, in part, because I was sitting in the first row (rush tickets, $23.50) and would have felt like an a-hole were I the only one sitting, staring up at a stage full of hard-working actors who just sweated through their wimples on my behalf. I am not a stander, usually, unless it is earned but neither am I so principled I won't rise to an occasion, occasionally.

I stand for different reasons. Sometimes to applaud a spectacular production, like The Book of Mormon. Sometimes to applaud a spectacular performance, like any number of Velmas during the first decade of Chicago's revival run. Sometimes to applaud a life's work, like Elaine Stritch in At Liberty, although it qualified on all three fronts. And sometimes I applaud because I appreciate the effort, especially when the effort is to create actual theatre.
Sister Act could have Priscilla'd its way on stage and probably would have been completely successful. It is a fun movie, a fun idea, and funny. This is no facsimile, although the Kathy Najimy chracter is more Najimy than character in this production, right down to the giggle and mannerisms. But Sarah Bolt doesn't just stand behind a mask and pantomime, a la Lion King. She mines the new jokes and earns the laughs.

Patina Miller is no Whoopi Goldberg. She's a singer, first of all. And a fine dancer. She has a swagger that is in no way reminiscent of Whoopi's nebbishy, George Jefferson on estrogen. That is not to say Miller is better or worse. She lack's Whoopi's it. Lacks her comic sediment. But Miller works her tail off, makes the role her own, guides you on a toe-tapping journey with very little off-stage time, connects some occasionally disconnected dots (no doubt the handiwork of accountants, creative committee, and forest-for-the-trees decisions), and does it all with a mega-watt smile and a triple threat.

Audrie Neenan is no Mary Wickes. It would be unfair to hold her to that standard; but she is charming, funny, grouchy, gruff, and hilarious. She does for the stage production exactly what Ms. Wickes did for the movie, without mimicry or acquisition.

The men are generally weaker than the women, but they have less to do. It is, after all, a show about nuns. (And how nice it is to see a show with a large group of women, all shapes and sizes, looking like real women--beautifully real.) Back to the men. Fred Applegate is just about perfect in a small and stereotypical role. Demond Green is charmingly stereotypical as the comedic half-wit. Caeser Samayoa, Kinglsey Leggs, and John Treacy Egan provide adequate ado for their stereotypical roles as the Hispanic thug, the black thug, and the delusional lothario. . .thug. Chester Gregory underwhelms and never elevates his function beyond the functional.

That the script could be torn from the pages of any How to Make a Musical handbook is almost irrelevant. The show isn't trying to take on social issues or make revolutionary changes in the musical form or the human spirit. The writers, most celebrated in the sitcom format, don't fall back on television habits thankfully. They may not be creating deeply thoughtful drama, but they thoughtfully created the script for its medium--no doubt helped considerably by the contributions of theatre veteran, Douglas Carter Beane. The sets were inspired but the directing and choreography were not. Jerry Zaks merely directs traffic, and Anthony Van Laast seems to think he is choreographing a marching band.

The score, too, is formulaic; but fortunately the formula is Alan Menken's. He actually circumnavigates a fairly dangerous obstacle. Much of the fun of the movie comes from the brilliant Mark Shaiman arrangements of popular songs twisted for divine measure. With no help from ASCAP, Menken and lyricist, Glenn Slater, create songs with popular themes and sounds that sound devilish--and Massively innappropriate. The songs are catchy, hummable, and engrossing at their best moments; but the whirlwind of fun is sometimes reduced to a pffft. The greatest sufferer is the Victoria Clark fan. Why on Earth you would cast that voice and give her such forgettable, unsingable nonsense is beyond me. It seems almost maliciously written for the least navigable parts of her voice. She is solid in the role but shoulders the burden of the worst songs in the show.

Marla Mindelle seems to have been cast more for the look than the goods in the role of the postulant who finds her voice. There is a look the actress in the movie makes when she sings her first note at a decibel heard by humans. Mindelle co-0pted the look and repeats it every time she opens her mouth. It's like a one-note Groundhog Day, literally. She needs more punch and more power, but her solo of epiphany and empowerment is strong enough to do her penance.

The show commits a couple of sins. For reasons unknown and unnecessary it is set in 1976-77, so the gratuitous moon walking and granny rapping are completely out of place--but they get their laugh. Not the first time virtue has been traded for a tickle. Those transgressions aside, the show is a gift from the theatre goods--not perfect, not brilliant but perfectly fun and funny--equal parts intelligent design and big bang.

Wonderland

Photo credit: Peter James Zielinski

You know you’re in trouble when the most endearing, magical moments of a musical occur before the curtain ever rises. Much like the looped entertainment news that precedes a movie, Wonderland features a preshow: an invisible hand that slowly sketches the original Tenniel illustrations of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland onto a curtain colored like an antique book’s faded page. The soft, swirling movements etch the iconic black and white drawings, allowing the viewer a brief glimpse before the image evaporates in a smoke like wisp. Unfortunately, the effort only reminds you how much more enchanting the original version of Alice’s adventures are.

In this rendition, Alice (Janet Dacal from In the Heights) becomes an overworked inner city schoolteacher and frustrated wannabe children’s book author. Oh, and she’s also on the verge of divorce. As she falls asleep on her daughter’s bed after receiving another publisher’s rejection, she follows a white rabbit into Wonderland and her journey to self-realization begins. She meets the usual characters: the caterpillar (The Scottsboro Boys’ E. Clayton Cornelious), the Cheshire Cat (Jose Llana, portraying a Spanish version as El Gato) and The White Knight (Darren Ritchie). Her initial interactions with Wonderland’s population seem almost like cabaret banter—fluffy and light, and good for a laugh, but not really memorable. For instance, the White Rabbit mutters, “I was not punctual… I was not punctual,” instead of the usual “I’m late” because Disney owns the rights. Quite fun, though, is the nostalgia-infused “One Knight” number that casts The White Knight and his fellow knights as a boy band, clad in tight white pants and appropriating the moves of ’N Sync, BSB, and NKOTB.

The virtuous White Knight becomes Alice’s protector, following her to the infamous tea table where she meets a dominatrix version of the Mad Hatter (a menacing Kate Shindle) who states airily that Alice is not what she expected. “I’m a disappointment to myself, too,” Alice replies. And here’s the crux of the problem: Alice as a self-defeatist (and a bit of a whiner to boot) isn’t exactly an endearing character. Does the audience really care if Alice finds her way? Not really. Even when she snaps out of her melancholy to venture through the looking glass when the Mad Hatter and her henchrabbit, Morris the March Hare, kidnap daughter Chloe, Alice never seems maternal; her rescue mission feels like one more thing an overtaxed working mother should do.

Ultimately, Alice’s evolution into someone who will fight for her dreams, as well as for her daughter, seems too pat. Rather than learning something from her adventures, her epiphany comes from a meeting with The Victorian Gentleman (a thinly veiled Lewis Carroll), who urges her to “always believe in your dreams.” This makes her eventual transformation feel more like a Lifetime movie than offering any real resonance.

The music by Frank Wildhorn (lyrics by Jack Murphy, who also writes the book with Director Gregory Boyd) is serviceable. Although Wildhorn’s past shows Jekyll & Hyde and The Scarlet Pimpernel produced some power ballads still on the cabaret circuit today, overall the songs in Wonderland don’t linger after the show finishes—although, perhaps, Alice’s solo, “Home,” (later reprised in the second act) might someday join that cabaret rotation. The cast makes the most of the treacly material, though. Karen Mason manages to make you look past the ridiculous Princess Leia like hair braids and heart-shaped wardrobe of the Queen of Hearts to appreciate her underused crystalline voice. Especially good is Carly Rose Sonenclar, as Chloe, who provides the heartfelt vulnerability of a child discovering that the world is not a fairytale.

Introduction

Hello. I'm Sandra Mardenfeld and I'm excited to be writing for Show Showdown! I'm currently working on my PhD in Communication and Information at Rutgers University, specializing in media studies. Writing for this blog is a welcome diversion--anyone who has written a dissertation will tell you how grueling it is. Previously, I was the managing editor for several national magazines, the Broadway editor of Playbill, and an editor/writer on many websites. Currently, I am the director of the journalism program at C.W. Post University and a freelance writer/editor.

Seance on a Wet Afternoon

Photo: Carol Rosegg

In writing Seance on a Wet Afternoon, was Stephen Schwartz hoping to create his Sweeney Todd? There are definite similarities: grim subject matter, a middle-aged couple full of manipulation and evil-doing, a large chorus commenting on the goings-on, even a two-story set that turns to present different rooms of a house. Unfortunately, however, Seance on Wet Afternoon is not the masterpiece that Sweeney Todd is. But this tale of a medium who has her husband kidnap a child, in order to then "find" her and receive acclaim, has some definite strengths.

First, and most importantly, Schwartz manages to sustain a continuous level of tension throughout the piece, despite its too-slow first act. The entire opera is satisfyingly unsettling. Second, Schwartz provides moments of real beauty, though they are not as frequent as one would want. The high point for me (and, judging by applause, for the rest of the audience) was when the mother of the kidnapped child expresses her anguish in an aria gorgeously sung by Melody Moore. The third strength is that the libretto, based on a novel written by Mark McShane and a movie directed by Bryan Forbes, has an intriguing story to tell. Last but certainly not least, the design elements and orchestra are excellent. A curtain of long glittering chains evokes both a sense of constant rain and a creepy feeling of claustrophobia.

[spoilers below]

The weaknesses include the following: The show is too long and too slow. The supratitles are annoying and hard to ignore, and they are mostly unnecessary. Schwartz's lyrics, while deserving high points for intelligibility, are often silly and/or lame and rarely more than adequate. Lauren Flanigan plays the humor well but falls down on the pathos. (In another parallel with Sweeney Todd, she has a scene in which she realizes that she will have to kill a child. A number of the Mrs. Lovetts I have seen, in particular Christine Baranski, played that realization with a chilling combination of sadness and nonchalance. Flanigan's realization was considerably less textured.) The crowd scenes of reporters and photographers add little to the opera, and they are awkwardly staged. (Not meaning to beat a dead horse, but director Scott Schwartz is no Harold Prince.)

Overall, Seance on a Wet Afternoon provides an interesting evening in the opera house but, considering the source material, might have provided a thrilling one.

(Press ticket, 6th row slightly to the side.)