Everything I Know I Learned From Musicals

Review - Kinky Boots on Broadway

I've been a bit disheartened of late by crowds going full-tilt bug-nutty during, and at the end of, shows that, at least from my perspective, are seriously deficient in quality. It happened when I saw Pippin at the ART. (And will by all accounts happen again when I see that production on Broadway in a few weeks.)

And it happened last week when I caught Kinky Boots shortly after its Broadway opening, upon which the show received strong, if not stellar, reviews. Count me among the uncoverted. There's no question that Kinky Boots has its bespangled heart in the right place. And there are some set pieces that are genuinely thrilling, most of which involve the delightful Billy Porter in what will likely become the role of a lifetime for him.

In fact, the only times when I felt Kinky Boots was working were when either Billy Porter or Annaleigh Ashford were on stage. (I likewise felt that Pippin only worked when either Andrea Martin or Rachel Bay Jones were involved.) Kinky Boots just wasn't holding me at all until Porter, as the resident drag queen and free spirit, made his first entrance, and suddenly I was in, albeit sporadically. Porter is a fiery wonder during his songs, particularly during his kick-ass 11 o'clock number, "Hold Me in Your Heart," although he had a strong tendency to overdo his line readings during his scenes. Ashford, as the unlikely and eventual love interest for the leading male character, was a spark of engaging, rich characterization in a show seriously lacking in same. Porter and Ashford almost make the Kinky Boots journey worth taking.

Almost.

There are three main culprits in the musical miasma that is Kinky Boots: librettist Harvey Fierstein, composer/lyricist Cyndi Lauper, and director/choreographer Jerry Mitchell. As you may know, if you've seen the 2005 film "Kinky Boots," the plot here involves a young English man who inherits a failing shoe company from his father. To save the company, he decides to make quality shoes for drag queens. An extremely promising setup, but one that Fierstein squanders with leaden exposition, surface emotion, and manufactured drama, although there are periodic flashes of the Fierstein wit. Characters appear, sing a big number that seems to be setting them up for a major role in the plot, and then disappear completely. (See Medda in Fierstein's Newsies.) Admittedly, there are also some very sweet, heartfelt moments along the way, particularly when drag queen Lola reveals her past, and her real name, to Charlie, our male lead.

Whereas act one of Kinky Boots is pedestrian, act two is downright preachy. I mean puh-reachy. At times it feels like there are more life lessons than sequin glimmers bursting from the stage. What's worse, the second act involves character choices that ultimately reveal that Fierstein hasn't really done his job of setting up who these people are so that we can understand the choices that they make. Charlie in particular is a cipher, with no discernible characteristics. Because we don't really know who he is, we're not really sure where, for instance, his anger is coming from. The normally remarkable Stark Sands is wasted here in a colorless role. Mitchell fails Sands here as well. In Charlie's big act-two solo, "The Soul of a Man," Sands is forced to make mindless rock-star gestures, like something left over from American Idiot, because Mitchell hasn't given him anything meaningful to do during the song.

I think the specific combination of Fierstein and Mitchell is an unfortunate one here. In the absence of a strong directorial hand, like that of Arthur Laurents (La Cage aux Folles) or John Doyle (A Catered Affair), there's no one on hand to give Fierstein focus, or to rein in his excesses. Mitchell is clearly not up to the task. After this and the equally scattered Legally Blonde, I can't say that I'm very big on Mitchell's prospects as a director/choreographer.

Cyndi Lauper's score comprises some rather dull, cliché-ridden ballads and a few moderately rousing uptempo songs. Lauper's rhyme schemes are either lazy (pairing "escape" with "case," and "hubris" with "excuses") or facile: "It's not just a factory, this is my family." It got to the point where, as soon as I heard the word "hero" at the end of one line, I knew "zero" would occur somewhere in the near future. I was actually waiting for the old "life/strife" chestnut, but fortunately that one never materialized. (Can Mayor Bloomberg, or Governor Cuomo, please pass a law that, before any further pop musicans decide that they automatically have the chops to write musical theater songs, that they have to pass a quality test or attend a BMI workshop? I'm only half-joking here.)

I can see the comments now from the Kinky Boots faithful: "Well, if the crowds were going wild, and the critics liked it, too, doesn't that mean that you're wrong?" No, it doesn't. It means that Kinky Boots didn't work for me, and I'm putting my observations out there as part of the larger conversation about the show. I'm sure than many people will disagree with me, and will thoroughly enjoy the show.

I didn't. It's as simple as that.

Review - La Cage aux Folles on Tour in Boston

The fall semester at the Boston Conservatory is over. ("Big breath in. And release.") Now I get a chance to catch up on some much-delayed blogging.

Among the numerous shows in my current blogging backlog is the Boston stop of the national tour of La Cage aux Folles. I was so enamored of Terry Johnson's heartfelt and smart production when it was on Broadway (read my review) that I went back to see it again when Harvey Fierstein took over for Tony Award winner Douglas Hodge (read my revisit review).

I didn't get to see Christopher Sieber as George on Broadway (I saw the George understudy right after Jeffrey Tambor bid the show a hasty adieu, and before Sieber signed on), but I was especially looking forward to seeing the always reliable and downright adorable Mr. Sieber play Albin/Zaza in the tour.

Fortunately, Sieber does not disappoint. Unfortunately, he's saddled with a costar who may just as well have stayed home with his tanning bed. But more on him later.

Christopher Sieber is simply delicious as Albin, wonderfully playful and mischievous, but with a strong sense of nobility when the need arises. As wonderful as he was as Albin, I can also see him bringing a warm sense of stability to playing the part of George. It's really a shame that cloning technology has not progressed to the point at which we could have Sieber play both roles, but alas we are stuck with George Hamilton, who, simply put, has absolutely no business being up on that stage.

I can't say I've followed Hamilton's career very closely, but I can imagine he was quite charming and engaging in his day. His day, it seems, has passed. At 72, Hamilton is leaden and soporific in a role that should be light and suave. You could see that he was trying to be animated (well, as much as his surgically augmented, gravity defying face would allow), but his line readings, when they weren't utterly incomprehensible, were at best wan and mumble-mouthed. 

I know that touring shows can benefit greatly from marquee-value headliners, but is this man really that much of a draw? How long has it been since he was culturally relevant, as opposed to a walking punchline? To me he's sort of like the Gabor sisters: you know he's famous, but you'll be damned if you can recall what for. Whatever reason the producers signed him up, his presence utterly deflates this delicate souffle of a production.

The La Cage tour is currently playing in Chicago, and has upcoming stops in Tampa, Pittsburgh, Houston, and Los Angeles, among many other stops. It's worth taking in for Sieber, without question, and the supporting cast members are professional, if indistinct. And, of course, there's Jerry Herman's witty and tuneful songs, although the orchestra in Boston was noticeably thin and tinny. And I don't usually notice these things. (Do I, Kevin?) So if I'm finding the orchestrations anemic, I can imagine that a real aficionado would be reaching for the iron supplements.

Review - La Cage with Harvey Fierstein but not Jeffrey Tambor

The sheer number of new musicals and revivals opening this spring in New York is fairly daunting. Don't get me wrong: more shows is certainly better than fewer. But my full-time schedule of classes at the Boston Conservatory creates a logistical challenge to me to get down to the city, preferably for one of the appointed press dates for the shows in question.

So far things are working out: I'm headed down this weekend to see The Book of Mormon, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, Where's Charley?, and How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Watch for my reviews in the weeks to come.

Before the spring crop of shows began to burgeon, I wanted to get down to see La Cage aux Folles with its new stars Harvey Fierstein and Jeffrey Tambor. Well, shortly after I arranged for my ticket it was announced that Tambor would be leaving the show after only a week of performances. The official line was that Tambor was experiencing complications from a recent hip operation. The truth, from what I hear, was a lot closer to what Michael Riedel reported in the New York Post: Tambor couldn't handle the role, lost his confidence, and succumbed to a major case of stage fright.

So, by the time I made it back to the Longacre Theatre, Tambor had withdrawn from the production, leaving his more than capable understudy, Chris Hoch, to pick up the slack. At the time, it hadn't been announced that Christopher Sieber would be Tambor's eventual replacement. Otherwise, I might have rearranged my plans: I love me some Chris Sieber. Maybe I'll have to take the show in a third time.

I certainly wouldn't mind. To be perfectly honest, the show felt more swiftly paced and emotionally engaging under the ministrations of Kelsey Grammer and Douglas Hodge. Perhaps this was because I was attending a sparsely populated Wednesday matinee the second time around. But once the production got moving, it became clear that the real star of the show remained director Terry Johnson's marvelously intimate and heartfelt staging.

The production is well worth a second look, if only for Harvey Fierstein, who is quite simply a comic wonder. And his "I Am What I Am" was stunning, full of both raw power and emotional restraint. Anyone who thinks Harvey Fierstein can't sing is in for a real surprise. (Although those of us who are fans of the sorely underrated A Catered Affair can attest to his perhaps surprisingly melodic singing prowess.) True his vocal timbre is closer to that of an overheated mallard that your typical Broadway leading man, but his intonation is impeccable, and his emotional expression incomparable.

Hearing Harvey's voice again in person reminded me of when I saw La Cage in its Boston tryout at the Colonial Theater some 27 years ago. I was but a wee sprite, but I nonetheless recognized a familiar foghorn of a voice emanating from behind me, and was delighted when I turned to see Harvey seated over my right shoulder. Not only that, but Jerry Herman was seated two seats away from me in my own row. It made for a rather magical evening, and I'm thrilled that Mr. Fierstein has afforded me the opportunity of bringing that experience full circle.