A misstep from Moonbox

The cast of A New Brain.  Photo: Sharman Altshuler.

Moonbox Productions counted as my big "find" on the fringe last year; their Floyd Collins was a remarkable achievement for a fledgling troupe, and their revival of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men was almost as strong.  But everyone hits a sophomore slump sooner or later, and I hope that's the only significance of their problematic production of A New Brain, William Finn's quirky, over-rated account of his own brain surgery (through April 6 at the BCA).

But let me say up front - many of the company's familiar strengths shine through this show; there are several talented newcomers in the cast, and Allison Olivia Choat, the auteur behind Moonbox, directs and designs with her usual remarkable flair (this time the whole show is organized around a white grand piano, which becomes a sailboat or hospital bed as required, and even undergoes surgery). Indeed, Choat's work at the interface of direction and design ranks among the most imaginative I've seen locally; it's actually better than Finn's script.

Which only makes me wonder whether she's choosing projects that are worthy of her talent.  Floyd Collins - okay, interesting; Of Mice and Men - sure, it's flawed but powerful; but Godspell, and now A New Brain?  I sense a kind of earnest victimology linking these choices, but not a whole lot more (and arguably Finn's song cycle - it's not quite a musical - is the weakest of the lot).

The basic trouble is that William Finn is more a lyricist than a composer - indeed, his signature achievement is fitting his tunes to the idiosyncratic rhythms of conversation (particularly self-conscious conversation).  But he's a monotonous melodist; it's telling that the children's songs in the score (the lead supposedly writes for a kiddie show) don't sound that different from the heart-felt ballads, and many of the show's numbers - there are something like thirty of them! - are relentlessly similar in their chord progressions.  As for the book, which is partially credited to James Lapine - well, it's odd how pre-fab it feels, given that it's supposedly a kind of confession.  Overbearing mother, pre-occupied boyfriend, obnoxious boss - there aren't many new ideas in this New Brain.

The Moonbox actors, to their credit, throw themselves into the show regardless, and for a while they can coast on the weirdness of doing a musical about brain surgery.  But they're hamstrung by the decision to put the instrumental ensemble backstage, with no screen, which means they have to shout over the orchestrations - with some lyrics inevitably being lost (and remember Finn is a basically a lyricist . . .).  What's more, director Choat and likable lead Tom Shoemaker haven't figured out a way to make Finn's rather bland factotum, "Gordon Schwinn," hold our interest for the whole show (the underdeveloped book is little help).

Still, there's witty choreography on tap from Rachel Bertone, and Fabian Aguilar's costumes are pretty fabulous (the amphibious outfit for "Mr. Bungee," the vicious kiddie star who impersonates a frog, is a particular hoot).  And the supporting cast is packed with talent, including local light Shana Dirik as Schwinn's complicated mom, the fearless Matthew Zahnzinger as the evil Mr. Bungee, and Allison Russell, Aaron Michael Ray, and particularly Lori L'Italien (whose belt reliably cuts through her accompaniment) in various roles.  I left wanting to like the show because I liked all these people.  But I'd like them all a whole lot more in a stronger script, and in a theatre where I can hear them.

Moonbox shines on

Phil Tayler and Harry McEnerny before their best laid schemes go awry.  Photo: Craig Bailey

Moonbox Productions first rose over the fringe two years ago, I believe; I didn't catch their first productions, but was struck by the quality of their remarkable Floyd Collins last spring.  Now they're back, with Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, in a moving version (through this weekend at the BCA) that can't quite disguise some of the playwright's clumsy dramaturgy, but still mines (thanks to accomplished lead performances) the deep veins of feeling that have made this text a cultural touchstone.

Surely you know the sad story, of quick-witted George and slow-witted Lennie, drifters bound at the hip in Depression-era California, who wander a lonely landscape as hired hands. Their hardscrabble lives are made all the harder by the frequent scrapes Lennie gets into; a gentle giant who doesn't know his own strength, his only dream is to stroke soft things (rabbits, those eponymous mice) - it's when his attention is drawn by a woman's dress or hair that he finds himself in trouble.

If your heart beats a little faster at this homophilic (as opposed to homo-erotic) daydream, then you're already on Steinbeck's wavelength.  To my mind, however, the author's adoration of all things brotherly almost borders on the neurotic: his only female character lacks even a name (she's simply "Curley's Wife"), and her sex appeal is constantly rebuffed with hilarious lines like "You git away from us honest God-fearin' menfolk, you slutty no-good tramp!" Given the clear criticism of racism in this text, Steinbeck's predilection for sexism comes off as more than a little bizarre.

Still, the bond between George and Lennie, who would be lost without one another, has touched legions of high-school hearts for a reason; in its very crudeness it seems to tap into something primal, and rising actors Phil Tayler and Harry McEnerny make the many contradictions of this odd couple seem natural, even inevitable.  The charismatic Tayler is smart enough to make George not entirely sympathetic; sometimes bitter, even cruel, he's a smaller man than Lennie both physically and emotionally. Yet Tayler also convincingly communicates George's love for, as well as his exasperation with, his partner's simplicity; it's a remarkable, and remarkably sustained, performance - the third this year from this young actor. As Lennie, Harry McEnerny is if anything even more committed; he projects his character's mental deficits, and particularly his pain, with heart-breaking honesty and transparent technique.

There's also strong work from the reliable Erica Spyres as that good-for-nothin' so-and-so who inadvertently brings about Lennie's (and her own) doom; meanwhile Ed Peed and Calvin Braxton (as the lone black ranch hand, who is the target of constant prejudice) likewise find their own poignant moments.  The rest of the cast is able, but less experienced, and in their scenes director Allison Olivia Choat has less luck disguising the naïveté of Steinbeck's playwriting.

I've heard that the author actually conceived Of Mice and Men as a kind of "novel-play;" he consciously attempted to construct his book from dialogue which could be translated directly to the stage.  But somehow this slim volume has yielded an almost three-hour drama, in which the relentlessly earnest atmosphere can begin to drag - partly because beyond a potent conjuring of the loneliness of the human condition, Steinbeck just doesn't have that much to work with beyond foreshadowing and thematic repetition.  Trimmed of a good half hour, this could be a stunning work of theatre.  As it is, the shine of the acting at Moonbox still makes much of it compelling.

Notes from the underground

Mark Linehan and Phil Tayler connect in Floyd Collins. Photos: Sharman Altshuler.

I went to Floyd Collins - the latest from Moonbox Productions, at the BCA through this weekend - somewhat skeptical of its prospects.   This early Adam Guettel show has a cult following, but it's known as a tricky endeavor, so I doubted a fledgling theatre troupe (Floyd is only the third show from Moonbox) had much hope of pulling it off.

But to my surprise, I left pleased - and a little suspicious.  Who's behind all this? I wanted to know. Theatre companies just don't get this strong quite this quickly!  Someone with expertise and pull is clearly behind Moonbox - and given Michael Maso's presence in the house on the day I attended, I'm guessing there's some Huntington connection here - but honestly, despite my enthusiasm for games of theatrical Clue, for all I know this was produced by Colonel Mustard (in the Conservatory).

And just in case you can't tell - this is a long, back-handed kind of compliment; Floyd Collins, though not perfect, is still one of the shows to see right now in town (and you only have till Sunday).   It's notable for two major reasons - its lead, Phil Tayler, provides one of the most effortlessly charismatic performances of the year (with supporting actor Matthew Zahnzinger only a few steps behind).  And the musical direction, by Dan Rodriguez, is superb (even given the constraints of the BCA Plaza Theater space).

Which is a good thing, because this is one of Adam Guettel's strongest scores; I might even argue that it's a bit better than his big hit, The Light in the Piazza, which for me kind of congeals over its course into self-conscious post-romantic schmaltz.  Floyd is self-conscious, too (and how); but believe it or not, the tension between Guettel's two sources here - roughly, Ravel (!) and the folk music of the Appalachians - proves surprisingly fruitful.  Weirdly fruitful.  And Guettel's feel for phrases rather than melody finds its natural parallel in the yodeling that's common to the region - indeed, Floyd's opening "song," a long solo as he creeps further and further into a network of caves, yodeling to asses their size, may be the best thing Guettel has ever written, and it's brilliantly performed here by Tayler (with an assist from Dan Costello's evocative sound design, which later conjures a convincingly thunderous avalanche, too).

By now you're probably wondering - what the hell is Floyd Collins about?  Well, it's the tale of one of America's earliest (and largest) media sensations - the attempted rescue of the eponymous Floyd Collins, the eccentric operator of "Crystal Cave," one of Kentucky's lesser underground tourist attractions, from his entrapment in an uncharted cavern he had been exploring.  Poor Floyd didn't make it out in the end - but in the meantime, the media circus that surrounded the various efforts to free him became a legend in its own right.

The story has already inspired a minor film classic - Billy Wilder's caustic satire of media exploitation, Ace in the Hole, which still shocks in its cynicism (but only because it's so accurate about the press). Alas, Wilder's film failed at the box office; its worldview proved too acrid for popular taste.  And the musical didn't really become a hit, either; the rap on it is book problems - which I'm afraid it does indeed have (and which Moonbox does not quite triumph over).  But these largely stem from the fact that Guettel's librettist, Tina Landau, clearly wanted to dodge Wilder's dark tone, but keep some satiric edge to the material  - while simultaneously varnishing her characters with a solid coat of musical-theatre treacle.

Thus Floyd is here transformed into a wide-eyed innocent (when really he was spelunking more for profit than pleasure), while his neighbors, and even the reporters who descend on them, are viewed through a veil of sympathetic emotional gauze.   Now I'm not saying some surprising synthesis from these seemingly contradictory points of view is impossible - stranger things have happened! - but I am saying that Landau doesn't nearly pull it off in this case.

Still, the book has its moments.  The satire only works in one lightly pointed song - but Floyd's plight remains quite touching to the end, and his brief moments of human connection down there in the dark, buoyed by Guettel's delicate score, inevitably tug at the heart strings.  And Moonbox is certainly lucky in its Floyd - Phil Tayler (at left) offers both a beautifully sung and an utterly heartfelt performance.  Meanwhile Matthew Zahnzinger more than holds his own as Skeets Miller, the one newspaperman who really seems to care for Floyd, and there's also solid work from Mark Linehan, Teresa Winner Blume, and others in the cast.  Alas, the set isn't particularly evocative (although it gets the job done), and director Allison Choat can't quite keep the show's early momentum going - but she always keeps things in hand (wherever the tone may wander), and thank God everyone in the cast can sing (and as mentioned, the band is exemplary).  Fans of the minor gems of the recent Broadway catalogue won't want to miss this production - for I doubt we'll see a stronger Floyd Collins in these parts anytime soon.