By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
Hip-hooray and bushels of ballyhoo for the wide-open exuberance of 42nd Street, a musical so slap-happy with tapping and dripping with schmaltz, you could get giddy from it. The spectacular touring production now at the Music Hall at Fair Parkis naughty, gaudy, bawdy and brimming with talent. The chorines sport fab gams, the leads have fine, booming voices and everybody blurs in a blizzard of sequins, shuffling off to Buffalo and singing lullabies to Broadway.
continues at the Bath House Cultural Center through September 7. Call 214-653-9936.
As huge musicals go, this one is the ding-dong daddy from Dumas. From moment one, when the deep cherry-velvet curtain rises to reveal an army of time-stepping tappers pounding the boards in perfect unison, the energy is at lift-the-roof level. By the last number, the audience is thoroughly mesmerized by the syncopated madness. On opening night, more than a few spectators at the Music Hall hoofed it down the aisles as the houselights came up.
The provenance of this dazzling stage adaptation of the 1933 movie musical goes back two decades when director-choreographer Gower Champion revived the tuneful fairy tale of the shy understudy who becomes a Broadway star. Champion, who helmed Hello, Dolly! in the 1960s, struggled to get 42nd Street in shape for its New York opening in the summer of 1980. Reviews of the out-of-town tryout had pegged it a flop.
What happened onstage at the Winter Garden Theater the night the show finally hit Broadway is now a legendary chapter of showbiz triumph and tragedy. After a smashing performance, producer David Merrick appeared at the curtain call to announce that 60-year-old Champion had died suddenly that afternoon. The news had been withheld all day from the cast, including the leading lady, who was Champion's girlfriend at the time. As singers and dancers dissolved in tears onstage, theater critics scrambled out of the theater to file the breaking story. The next day 42nd Streetwas the front-page headline in every paper in the Big Apple. Great reviews and the furor over the director's death caused a box-office stampede. Champion would win posthumous Tonys, and his show would continue for 3,486 performances.
Jump ahead to 2001, the year The Producers won everything but the Nobel Peace Prize. That same season, a new production of 42nd Street opened on Broadway and was a surprise sleeper hit, earning great notices and winning a Tony for best revival. This production is still packing 'em in up there, and it has spawned the top-notch road company now playing at Fair Park.
The 1980 Gower Champion production really was something special. (I saw it.) But this new one--using some of Champion's old choreography but adding lots of new numbers by director-choreographer Randy Skinner--is even better. There's something brighter, happier, more romantic about the show this time around. The feel-good factor has increased tenfold.
Writers Mark Bramble (who also penned the 42nd Street book in 1980 and directs this new one) and Michael Stewart have freshened the plot about the wide-eyed small-town dancer, Peggy Sawyer, who gets hired for the chorus of a gooey 1933 show called Pretty Lady. When the marquee star, Dorothy Brock, breaks her ankle hours before opening night, shy Peggy is elevated to leading-lady status. Like a tap-dancing Eliza Doolittle, she gets the overnight makeover treatment. The intimidating director, Julian Marsh, orders her to be nothing less than great, telling her, in the show's most famous line, "You're going out there a youngster, but you've got to come back a star!"
In the past, Marsh has been played as a barking tyrant, about as likable as a drill instructor. Now, he's had the rough edges smoothed away, making him more matinee idol than martinet. Marsh and young Peggy get googly eyed across the footlights, and it's clear by the end that they're honeymoon-bound. As Marsh, actor Patrick Ryan Sullivan shows off a deep, expressive voice (sounding a bit like the late Phil Hartman as Troy McClure on The Simpsons) and enough graceful moves to make Peggy's crush on him believable.
As Peggy, blond Catherine Wreford looks waify, but dances with impressive power, whirling from partner to partner in the show's title number like a prettier Eleanor Powell. Blair Ross is a marvelous Dorothy Brock, turning her into a lovable diva who growls her songs (such as Act 2's "About a Quarter to Nine") with a torchy but touching vulnerability. Appropriately named Robert Spring goes boing-boing almost to the ceiling as tap-dancing tyro Billy Lawlor.
This show looks big-budget glamorous. The chorus lines glow like life-sized Kewpies in their costumes by Roger Kirk, who seems to have been inspired by the soft pastels of colorized black-and-white movies. Douglas W. Schmidt's trompe l'oeil sets depict brick-walled backstage life and the twinkly glow of Times Square at night. The platinum sparkle of costumes and set in the big dance number "We're in the Money" dazzles the eye like Cartier's window.
Timeless stuff, this.
About as far as you can get from the million-dollar glitzerama going on at Fair Park.
That's not a bad thing. Little homegrown productions like this keep actors up and working (for love, not money). This is a "kids-let's-put-on-a-show" effort that costs about a nickle-98 and gives some young thesps the chance to grapple with semi-sophisticated material.
Director Vikas Adam, who also plays the title character, people-hating Alceste, has taken writer Neil Bartlett's translation and set it in the fashion world. Alceste is a photographer. His lady, Celimene, is a model. Their friends are models, a makeup artist, a magazine editor.
Trouble is, Adam's Alceste starts out spitting-mad and stays that way, giving little indication why Celimene or the older vamp, Arsinoe, would find him irresistible. Adam, who bears a slight resemblance to Dustin "Screech" Diamond, just doesn't have enough "it" factor to make a zesty Alceste.
The actors also get bogged down in the verse-form of Bartlett's translation, which resorts to rhyming "stereotyped" and "ass-wiped," and "woman" with "inhuman." The scansion mimics Dr. Seuss much too often.
So I'll mean what I say and say what I meant; this play falls far short of 100 percent.
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