Vicki Lewis demands "Rose's Turn."

Why did North Shore Music Theatre choose Gypsy as its comeback number? The classic show is notoriously hard to cast - it includes one of the most challenging psychological roles in musical theatre history (Mama Rose) as well as a bevy of juveniles who can act, sing, and dance their hearts out. But it's a classic for a reason - it boasts one of the best scores evah (music by the great Jule Styne, lyrics by the even-greater Stephen Sondheim). Even more to the point, its theme - show-biz survival, no matter what - has tremendous resonance for the NSMT itself. When Mama Rose defiantly shouted "Curtain up! Light the lights!" in the showstopping "Everything's Coming Up Roses," you could feel everyone in the building, from the audience to the crew, singing silently along with her.

Because, in case you didn't know, the North Shore has survived even more than Mama Rose has. Fire, then bankruptcy - and still the theatre keeps coming back, this time as a for-profit venture by theatre impresario Bill Hanney. You've gotta have show biz in your blood to take that kind of risk, so it was a relief to find that Gypsy, despite a wobble here and there, boded well for his big gamble; as a first step, this brilliant musical counts as something of a great leap forward for the NSMT. Director Richard Sabellico has brought some clever flourishes to his essentially-traditional production, and has smartly re-staged this proscenium show for the NSMT's in-the-round arena (if anything, he has almost over-compensated with the blocking). As stage-mom-from-hell Mama Rose, TV star Vicki Lewis at first doesn't seem to have the take-no-prisoners brassiness we associate with the likes of Ethel Merman, Roz Russell and Patti LuPone - but we realize slowly that this is Mama Rose not as drill sergeant but as underdog, and her sheer determination grows on you. And to be honest, Lewis brings an edge of needy desperation to her famous meltdown, "Rose's Turn," that I thought (although I know this is heresy) was more powerful than LuPone's take in the widely-raved-over Broadway revival.

And there's more good news. As downtrodden daughter Louise, Catherine Walker displays both the sweetest set of pipes in the show, and a steadily-growing sense of her own power as she sheds skin after psychological skin to finally reveal herself as stripper Gypsy Rose Lee. And Amanda Lea Lavergne made a surprisingly strong and sympathetic sister June, who grew up herself to be actress June Havoc (Lavergne was so intriguing, in fact, that we missed her once she'd left the story). There were other great turns from good sports Jacquelyn Piro Donovan, Jan Neuberger and Laurie Gamache as the grizzled strippers of "You Gotta Get A Gimmick" (which always brings down the house), and an acidly pert performance from Diane Terrusa as a fed-up producer's assistant.

Where are the gaps? I knew you were going to ask. Well, the staff is stripped down now, and you could feel it in the occasional squeak in the sound system, and the fact that the (pleasingly large) orchestra was still pulling together on opening weekend. The production didn't yet have the smooth, gears-gliding-against-gears feel that the North Shore had in its heyday. But then this is a first production. What I missed most was the great dancing that the North Shore used to showcase; they regularly attracted the best Broadway hoofers in the region (this may be just a question of re-connecting with some particular circuit). The opportunities for great dance in Gypsy are somewhat limited, it's true, but the one big opportunity in the show ("All I Need is the Girl") was good, but not great.

Still, what's the bottom line? The North Shore is back, with a big show that was a big gamble, but pays off, with strong supporting roles and a star turn that builds into something really commanding. The theatre has been smartened up, too, with fresh finishes here and there, and some sharp new landscaping and gazebos for drinks before the show. So curtain up - light the lights; there's nothing to hit but the heights. Everything is coming up roses for the North Shore.

What I saw in New York

Patti Lupone takes her turn at "Rose's Turn" in Gypsy.

What's a weekend in New York without a few shows? I'm embarrassed to say, however, that this time I didn't seek out anything edgy - no, I went straight for the gay comfort food: the revival of Gypsy with Patti Lupone, and the debut of Harry Potter's magic wand in the revival of Equus.

Both shows only reminded me how misguided Broadway worship truly is -
because neither production, frankly, measured up to the best I saw in Boston last spring (or this summer at Stratford and Williamstown). There are plenty of reasons why this should be so, despite the fact that New York has the largest, deepest pool of theatrical talent (and, of course, money) in the country: shows tend to grow stale during their long Broadway runs, or end up openly catering to the tourist crowd, or are simply under-rehearsed or uninspired, just like everywhere else.

Gypsy, for instance, has probably declined somewhat over the course of its run: it's certainly still a strong production, but it's hard to understand the raves plastered across its marquee. Patti Lupone seemed a bit weary at the performance I caught, and only really let rip at the finale, "Rose's Turn," (which she did invest with both psychological and vocal power). And her Tony-winning co-stars, Boyd Gaines and Laura Benanti, were likewise solid, but ever-so-slightly miscast: Gaines was a shade too elegant (and intelligent) to believably cast his lost with Mama Rose, and Benanti was too cool and calculating as young Louise to ever pull off a tearjerker like "Little Lamb" (especially against a stuffed lamb). Other roles (such as Tulsa) also lacked punch (indeed, up at Stoneham last fall, Louise and Tulsa were far stronger than their Broadway counterparts), and the reconstruction of Jerome Robbins's choreography only revealed that sometimes Robbins could be a pretty conventional choreographer. Diverting the show is; gripping it is not.

Equus, predictably, was even weaker - indeed, the largest drama of the preview I saw revolved around whether or not any of Daviel Radcliffe's young fans would be able to score some photos off their cell phones during the notorious nude scene (for a mere $160, you could sit above the stage in arena seating, to be closer to the reveal). It's true that as the disturbed young lad who blinds horses, Radcliffe does give his all as well as show his all (at left), and at times his damaged, scampering energy was actually compelling. But he hardly dispelled memories of Peter Firth's haunting turn in the role; his presence is simply not mysterious enough. And alas, as Dysart, his whiny psychiatrist, Richard Griffiths was even further from the famous standards of ruined, sonorous masculinity set by Anthony Hopkins and Richard Burton; Griffiths decorates the proceedings with a mournful wittiness, but conjures little pity or terror.

And the play desperately needs a major actor to whip up said atmosphere, because it really can't manage it on its own. Playwright Peter Shaffer has one solid idea - our civilized envy of the boy's dionysiac experience with his horse-god; but he doesn't really know how to develop this insight dramatically - instead he merely has Dysart piss and moan about his emasculation for two acts while the boy's story slowly plays out in flashback. The horses - here expertly mimed by male dancers in eerily-gleaming headgear - do provide a thrilling distraction, but that's precisely what they are: a distraction (although some might find it interesting that this time around their homo-erotic context was hardly subliminal). Then once we're done with the naughty bits, the play abruptly ends - because, obviously, it's really just a vehicle. The actors hit their marks, we look into the pit, and then it's so long, Equus, son of Schmequus, and back to the suburbs as soon as possible. Bostonians might be glad to hear local heroine Sandra Shipley acquits herself well in the supporting role of a hearty nurse; likewise Trekkies might be intrigued to discover that Kate Mulgrew beams down for some highly "dramatic" confrontations with Dysart. Other than that, I'm not sure it's worth a trip - except for those who are wild about Harry. Or his wand.

A Rose without thorns

For once, the printed word got it right - local reviewers have been generally correct in their complaint that Stoneham's Gypsy is hobbled by Leigh Barrett's much-anticipated star turn as Mama Rose. Vocally, of course, Boston's top diva turns in another performance to sing about, but dramatically, Ms. Barrett seems to have been tripped up by an innate urge to please, combined with her own expertise at intelligent introspection - which, of course, Mama Rose notoriously had none of; instead, this stage mother/monster should push her way through Gypsy via blind ambition and sheer force of will. Rose may indeed have loved the objects of her ambition, daughters Baby June (who became the actress June Havoc) and Baby Louise (who would metamorphose into the stripper Gypsy Rose Lee), but maternal feeling was not what drove her - and this grim fact is the curdled core of Gypsy, a poisoned valentine to not just vaudeville, burlesque, and perhaps all of show biz, but to the maternal bosom as well.

The show's lyricist, Stephen Sondheim, of course, had a famously horrific mother too ("Foxy" Sondheim), so he clearly understood Mama Rose's subconscious agenda (Sondheim once wrote a thank-you note for a piece of china that ran, "Thanks for the plate, but where was my mother's head?"). The author of the show's book, Arthur Laurents (with whom Sondheim worked closely), whitewashed the real-life Rose Hovick (who shot one person dead, and attempted to kill Baby June's fiancée) to deliver a brassy anti-heroine tailored to the take-no-prisoners persona of Ethel Merman. Sans Merman, of course, the question of how likeable Rose should, or can, be, is always pertinent to any production of Gypsy, but still, she should never be ingratiating, as Barrett too often makes her.

Barrett's sympathy with daughters June and Louise is likewise misplaced; what Sondheim and Laurents understood is that Rose's mania for vicarious stardom came with a catch: once she reached her goal, and her girls did become stars, they were of no use to her - instead, they became reminders of her own personal failure. Indeed, as adults, June Havoc and Gypsy Rose Lee would only communicate with their mother through lawyers; her last words to Gypsy were ""Wherever you go, whatever you do, I'll be right there. When you get your own private kick in the ass, just remember: it's a present from me!"

Ah, yes - wherever you go, whatever you do - with his usual perversity, Sondheim pulled those lines right into the upbeat anthem "Together, Wherever We Go" which graces the second act of Gypsy. This was, however, only one of a dozen inspired choices; not for nothing is Gypsy generally considered the last of the great book musicals: along with a tight book and an indelibly rendered star role, it's studded with memorable Jule Styne melodies (and Sondheim lyrics), including "Let Me Entertain You," "You'll Never Get Away from Me," and of course "Everything's Coming Up Roses."


A burlesque "tribute to Christmas" in Gypsy. For a taste of Gypsy Rose Lee's actual act, see the post below of her routine from Stage Door Canteen. (Photo by Stephanie Moskal.)

And the Stoneham cast generally does well by the show's numbers. Barrett's belting on "Roses" is sublime, and as Louise, up-and-comer Eve Kagan is quite affecting in "Little Lamb" and "If Mama was Married" (alas, we never sense her own dawning pleasure, though, in becoming a star - even a burlesque star - and how that translates into a triumph over Mama). The famous "You Gotta Get a Gimmick," always a highlight, is particularly hilarious here, as delivered by Vanessa Schukis, Shannon Lee Jones and Rebecca Zaretsky, and the show is likewise stopped by William Nash Broyles with "All I Need is the Girl." There are other good performances (including a subtle turn by Scott H. Severance as Mama Rose's perennial consort, Herbie, and vibrant dancing from Andrew Barbato, Tristan Viner-Brown, and Phil Crumrine), but director Caitlin Lowans never keeps the show on a tight rein - particularly the children's numbers - and so it sometimes feels unfocused, even community-theatre-esque (particularly on its bare-bones set). Still, its high points offer a sense of what Gypsy is all about - and given the disappointing general opening of the season, for some theatre fans that may be enough.