High and holy rollers at the North Shore

Kelly McCormick expects the denizens of Runyonland to "Follow the Fold." Photos by Paul Lyden. 

By now there's little doubt that Frank Loesser's Guys and Dolls is one of the signature achievements of Western civilization - after, I suppose, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and maybe King Lear.  In fact I may have never met anyone who didn't enjoy, or at least appreciate, this sublimely sardonic valentine to the milieu of Damon Runyon, who  during Prohibition (and after) famously chronicled New York's demi-monde of Jewish gangsters (Runyon himself was pals with the Dutch Schultz gang).

Runyon is one of those writers whose style has been accorded its own moniker - "Runyonese" - and even if you haven't read him, you'll recognize it immediately, so deeply has its lingo influenced the culture. In Runyonese, everyone speaks in the present tense, and the characters, known by such nicknames as "Liver-Lips Louie" or "The Seldom Seen Kid," converse in a robust patois that mixes pungent slang with naïvely elaborate construction, as in "I would respectfully suggest that this ever-lovin' broad find herself another world in which to live!"

Loesser hangs onto the Runyon vibe with perfect pitch in his  lyrics, and is essentially responsible for the book, too (it was basically built around his songs), which bemusedly matches irony for irony in its tale of Sarah Brown, the holy roller out to save the soul of high roller Sky Masterson.  Loesser's own additions to Runyonese are deliciously ingenious, too (he actually works "streptococci" into a lyric), and of course, as always, everything is set to unforgettable hooks.  In short, Guys and Dolls is unadulterated pleasure, certainly one of the best musicals ever written.

So why does the solid, but not quite inspired, North Shore production take so long to kick up its heels and shake a tail feather? I'm not quite sure.  It does get somewhere, but only well after we think it should have.  Part of the problem is that lead Sky Masterson is miscast; another is that second leads Miss Adelaide (Mylinda Hull) and Nathan Detroit (Jonathan Hammond), though individually strong, share little chemistry; finally, for once the great Michael Lichtefeld's choreography feels thin - at least until the showstoppers kick in.

Wayne W. Pretlow and Ben Roseberry in full  gangsta regalia.  

Or perhaps, for whatever reason, director Mark Martino simply was unable to pull his strong team of individual performers into a really tight ensemble.  Even so, Loesser's magic takes over much of the time; there are wonderful renditions here of "Miss Adelaide's Lament," from Mylinda Hull,  and "Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat" from Wayne W. Pretlow - and Kevin Vortmann, though too callow to convince as Sky, does warm up to bring off a lovely "I've Never Been in Love Before" with sweet, spunky Kelly McCormick, and then scores with a high-energy "Luck Be a Lady Tonight."

And the second act generally cooks with more heat than the first, with "Sit Down" truly rocking not just the boat but the house, as choreographer Lichtefeld hits a hotter groove both here and in "The Crap Game Dance." The finale is likewise a sweet hoot (the gangsters improbably bend to their women's will, of course), and the crowd leaves the house with a smile.  This version hardly hits Cloud 9, I'd say, but it still leaves you plenty high.

Say hello to this Dolly!

Jacquelyn Piro Donovan leads the singing waiters in the title tune.

Slowly, up in Beverly, a small theatrical renaissance has been going on at the North Shore Music Theatre.  As loyal readers may recall, the nonprofit company which had built an audience there over several decades suddenly collapsed as the economy went bust in 2008, and for a time it looked as if the property might be sold, and the theatre even demolished.

But improbably enough, theatrical entrepreneur Bill Hanney rescued the facility in 2010, and re-opened it (even more improbably) as a for-profit musical theatre and concert venue.  Past subscribers - who had been burnt by the previous regime - were nevertheless leery of returning, and the first few productions were a little threadbare, it's true.  And it didn't help that the Globe's Ed Siegel, for reasons that I think will forever remain mysterious to everyone but him, tried to bury the theatrical fledgling with a bizarre hatchet job.  (I guess he was hoping the theatre would become another anonymous office park.)

Luckily, however, no one actually listens to Ed Siegel, and the North Shore has seen leaps in its subscription audience every year.  And as the company has grown more financially confident, its productions have grown plusher and more stylish (although I hear that backstage it's still an extremely lean ship).  The management programs, I admit, a good deal of newer commercial work that appeals to the suburbs but has little interest for me - but I don't complain about that as long as it pays the bills for productions like Hello, Dolly! (above), a thoroughly charming version of this classic that's sweet, light on its feet, and showcases several of the best musical performers around.

Gary Beach and Jacuelyn Piro Donovan.

Although right up front - one caveat.  If you're one of those who believe that this particular show is really only a frame for its star performer, then prepare to have your mind changed (if it can be changed, that is).  For believe it or not, this is a convincing ensemble version of Dolly! - partly, it's true, because the talented Jacquelyn Piro Donovan (who stepped in for an indisposed Lorna Luft) is a perfectly likable leading lady, but lacks a truly distinctive stage personality.  Donovan has the pipes for the part, is a good hoofer, and knows how to nail her laughs - she's fine, really; but she is never actually beguiling, I'm afraid - and the improbable charm of matchmaker Dolly Gallagher Levi is, I think, essentially the show's calling card.

And yet somehow the production as a whole does beguile; Ms. Donovan, it turns out, is a team player, and she is surrounded by quite a team.  I was particularly taken with Gary Beach, a Tony nominee who gives a courtly edge to the curmudgeonly Horace Vandergelder (a client of Dolly's who is actually her own matrimonial target).  And there was warm, sincere work from Matt Loehr (late of the Broadway casts of The Producers and Mary Poppins) and Eric Mann, who together made comic hay out of Vandergelder's innocent clerks, who cross paths with him in cognito on their own romantic adventures in Manhattan.  Plus there was lovely singing on tap from Analisa Leaming, who made the little-known "Ribbons Down My Back" practically a show-stopper.

The chorus, meanwhile, both danced and sang well, under the guidance of director Charles Repole and choreographer Michael Lichtefeld, who together also helmed the exquisite My Fair Lady the North Shore fielded last summer (and thank God the theatre was smart enough to invite them back!).  My advice is - remember those names, at least if you're a fan of classic Broadway.  For Repole and Lichtefeld seem to know precisely how to do it; they have managed to somehow conjure the original, frothy essence of Dolly! without slavishly imitating its template (although don't worry, the familiar tentpoles of "The Waiters' Gallop" and the title number still hew closely to tradition).

Elsewhere, I was surprised at how well these two had adapted this proscenium show to the North Shore's arena (Lichtefeld works a particular miracle with "Put on Your Sunday Clothes").  But what was most striking was how superbly they caught the tone of the show - "gay" in the old-fashioned sense of being brightly colored, and buoyant with Jerry Herman's sunny, contradictory mix of optimism and nostalgia.  I suppose I have to admit this Hello, Dolly! may have never been galvanized by star power, but I was still quite sad to bid it good-bye.

The company puts on their Sunday clothes.

Something wonderful

Highlights from a pitch-perfect production at the North Shore.

When theatrical entrepreneur Bill Hanney saved the North Shore Music Theatre a few years back, I didn't realize he was saving the traditional musical, too. But that is, in effect, what he has done. Not that the NSMT is devoted entirely to the classics - but still, about half the season every year remains safe from the likes of Tarzan and Footloose.  For which I, and the graying, sold-out house at the North Shore last Sunday, will be, I think, eternally grateful.

Or at least we will be as long as what's onstage is as transporting as the current production of The King and I (which only plays through this weekend).  On paper, I know what it sounds like: aging Falconcrest hunk Lorenzo Lamas aping Yul Brynner, and somebody you've never heard of trying to channel Deborah Kerr, in a lotta glittery costumes from somebody's warehouse somewhere.  But in person, on stage, trust me, it's something wonderful.

Although I confess, I too was skeptical (at first) of old Lorenzo.  I was never a Falconcrest fan (!), and I must report he can only boast about the same singing voice as Brynner - and while the ladies of the house were pleased to see he's still pretty pec-tacular, I felt he didn't quite have the sheer physical charisma which Yul made synonymous with the role.  But Lamas kind of sneaks up on you with a performance that's craftier, and wittier, than you expect - by the curtain, you may look at him with newfound respect.

And given that he is surrounded by a truly superb cast, that's saying something.   I won't bother you with the plot - you should already know it, for heaven's sake - but I will say that this is one of my favorite Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals; its book is punchy and compact, the music is one of Rodgers's most ravishing achievements, and it includes one of musical theatre's most charming sequences, Jerome Robbins' ballet "The Small House of Uncle Thomas."  And all these virtues all but pop in director Richard Stafford's thoughtfully rendered production, which generally tailors the action well to the North Shore's arena stage.

In what is actually the leading role (Brynner won the Tony for "Featured Actor"),  Kate Fisher is, to put it simply, just about perfect. Her take on Anna Leonowens, the proper young teacher who arrives in Siam to teach the King's children (and spar with him over human rights and romance), may not break any new artistic ground, but Fisher still colors the role with her own personality (this is an Anna far more frustrated than Deborah Kerr ever was) and sings in an enchanting style that channels the young Julie Andrews - just listen to the YouTube above if you doubt me.

There's equally strong work across the board in the supporting roles.  Lisa Yuen conjured a subtle and sympathetic Lady Thiang, and as the kingdom's major domo, Mel Sagrado Maghuyop proved such a spitfire that the ladies around me were surprised to discover he wasn't actually the King. The singing honors, however, had to go to the gorgeous warbling of Manna Nichols and Joshua Dela Cruz (at left, and above) who as the star-crossed lovers Lun Tha and Tuptim took Rodgers standards like "We Kiss in a Shadow" into the vocal stratosphere.  Alas, the orchestral playing, under the direction of Craig Barna, wasn't quite in their league, but was nevertheless always solid, if not quite bewitching.

But wait, there were even more sharp performances around the edges of the show: Ron Wisniski contributed two delightful turns as British Empire types, and local boys Jack Favazza and Ellis Gage both distinguished themselves as Anna's son and the crown prince, respectively.

Meanwhile the costumes, by Paula Ninestein, were indeed glittery and very beautiful, and Eric D. Diaz's spare scenic design (and strikingly painted floor) conveyed more atmosphere than you had any right to expect. And then there was the exquisite dancing in "The Small House of Uncle Thomas," which painstakingly re-created the original Robbins choreography in the NSMT arena. I suppose I should warn politically-correct types that this mid-fifties mash-up of ethnicities (yes, in the movie, which you can watch on YouTube, Latinos played Asians playing African-Americans) could strike you as, well, "a failure of understanding," as folks like to say today.  So by all means, if you are like that, you should probably stay home and spend the evening patting yourself on the back; although I will note this fun fact: the real, rather imaginative Anna Leonowens wasn't quite the proper Brit she pretended to be - she was actually Anglo-Indian, so an A.R.T.-style production of The King and I could be in the offing someday! But in the meantime, everyone with a mature sense of cultural history and an appreciation for the arts should rush out to catch this pain-staking revival of one of the most moving and humane examples of musical theatre ever created.

There's been a resurgence of interest of late in My Fair Lady, Lerner and Loewe's classic musical transformation of Shaw's Pygmalion. The Stoneham Theatre did a strong production last year, which rode the coat-tails of the Trevor Nunn touring version that had rolled through town a year or two before. That version starred Lisa O'Hare as Eliza (at left) who is now back in another production, opposite Charles Shaughnessy (of TV's The Nanny), at the North Shore Music Theatre.

So - are three Ladies in as many years almost too much of a good thing?

Not in my book - I could see this show every week, particularly with O'Hare as its star. She matches Audrey Hepburn's gamine presence with Julie Andrews' aristocratic pipes, and if she was impishly charming in that tour three years ago, she's absolutely adorable now; O'Hare is nestled completely inside the role at this point, yet keeps finding subtly original ways of mining it for both sentiment and whimsy.  In this performance lover-ly singing (and Lady regularly soars into coloratura territory) meets hilariously perceptive acting; O'Hare's is truly a classic Eliza.

And as her romantic - and phonetic - nemesis, Henry Higgins (I don't have to tell you the plot, do I?), Charles Shaughnessy proves a genially dapper surprise.  He perhaps doesn't have the piquant arrogance of Rex Harrison, nor that sense that he's an unstoppable force - and therefore he doesn't drive you, or Eliza, mad, which is too bad.  But Shaughnessy compensates with his own impishly light touch, and it's a definite plus that he can actually sing a little (which is all he has to do).  It likewise doesn't hurt that he hasn't lost his looks - Shaughnessy's performance may not be as deep or forceful as Harrison's, but he's a far more convincing romantic figure (below) than Rex ever was.

Alas, it must be said that My Fair Lady isn't, perhaps, ideally suited for an arena staging, but choreographer Michael Lichtefeld's use of the space was consistently inventive (with "Get Me to the Church on Time" proving a genuine showstopper); and while the production was rarely opulent, under the firm hand of director Charles Repole, it was admirably streamlined, and kept up a quicker pace than Trevor Nunn's ever did.  And it seemed to me that a few numbers, such as the "Ascot Gavotte," (the one time the show did pull out every glamorous stop) actually seemed wittier in the round. Luckily the North Shore was also blessed with a strong supporting cast (several of them locals). Hayden Tee made a marvelously callow Freddy, and his marvelous tenor made the most of the gorgeously lyrical "On the Street Where You Live." Meanwhile Bostonians Cheryl McMahon and Sarah deLima nailed their respective roles as Mrs. Pearce and Higgins's drily poised mother (deLima was a particular hoot). I only had my doubts (some doubts, anyway) about the swagger Bill Dietrich brought to Alfred P. Doolittle - I like my Doolittles with more of a lilt.

So I think fans of the musical will almost certainly be won over by this latest version, and if you haven't seen it (if you had, you'd be a fan) - well, what are you waiting for?

"One" at the North Shore Music Theatre.

It's hard to remember the last time a musical was a cultural watershed; A Chorus Line may, in fact, have been the last one.  Sure, Cats, Les Miz, and Phantom ran longer, I know, but sheer longevity isn't what I'm talking about here.  Impact is.  To watch A Chorus Line today - and this weekend is its last at the North Shore Music Theatre - is to mainline the mid-70's in their purest form, because much of the mid-70's derived from A Chorus Line; Marvin Hamlisch, Michael Bennett, gay confessionals, disillusion and self-absorption, the sense of an endless adolescence,  the vulgar truth-telling, the glitzy but streetwise "attitude," even the wide lapels matched with the glittering, retro top hats - it all seems to coalesce into something like the apotheosis of a decade.  And weirdly, if you're old enough to remember said decade from the first time around, this singular sensation plays as more than just nostalgia - it feels more like a kind of recognition.  "Oh, yeah," I found myself thinking after nearly every number. "That's how we used to think - that's how we used to feel!"

Which is a little scary in a way.  And I wonder - would someone born after that glamorous, crass expanse of excess feel the same way?  Of course not; how could they?  But I think they'd sense the power of A Chorus Line as source material - after all, the politically co-opted, self-centered 70's echo on in the culture far more than the 60's do.  And the North Shore does the show up right - not perfectly, mind you, but with enough power (and schmaltzy smarts) to more than put it over.

Do I have to tell you the "story"?  All right - it's about an audition, okay?  For a - guess what - chorus line.  In which slowly everybody's secrets are revealed.  Now let's get straight to the review.  The "trick" to casting many a show is finding singers who can also dance, but the trick to Chorus is finding dancers who can also sing (and act up a storm as well).  And the North Shore succeeds (mostly) - indeed, given that dance has been their weak spot this season, I was relieved to find they'd brought onboard a bevy of talented hoofers.  Not quite all these folks can belt, but they can all carry a tune, and all of them can act - except, alas, "one."

And unfortunately, that "one" is one of the show's leads.  The production's big disappointment is Derek Hanson's Zach - Hanson's certainly handsome, and a great dancer, too (did we see Zach dance this much in the earlier versions?), but as the casting director of that eponymous chorus (below), he relies on flat, angry barking far too often, and doesn't seem to know how to take advantage of the sense of mystery his physical absence provides (most of the time he's a disembodied, God-like voice). It all feels like one huge missed opportunity.

Zach puts his dancers through their paces.

Luckily, however, just about everyone else provides a fine, punchy performance. Rebecca Riker had the right aura of defeated, uncertain glamour as Cassie (whose return to the chorus after a failed shot at stardom somehow distills the show's sense of disillusionment). And Nancy Renée Braun and Venny Carranza had a sweet, funny chemistry as the husband-and-wife team with one big problem - one of them can't "Sing!" I was also impressed with Aaron Umsted's cockily out-of-the-closet "homosexual," and Katie Cameron's aging survivor, and I pretty much adored Julie Kotarides as the straight-talking Puerto Rican girl who tears the pretensions of theatre class to shreds in the famous "Nothing." But perhaps I was most taken with the hilariously perky Leslie Flesner, who, in "Dance: 10, Looks: 3" assures us with bubbly confidence that "Tits and ass can change your life!"

Still, there were some ways in which A Chorus Line is showing its age - or perhaps, now that its up-front gay and sexual content counts as less "shocking" (today it's almost quaint), the structural problems in the book are clearer - and director Mark Martino hasn't found a way to dodge them (although he has found effective ways to adjust the familiar choreography to the North Shore's arena stage).  The subplot between Cassie and Zach is awfully thin, for instance, and a long monologue about coming out under fire seems so unmotivated that it basically stops the show - only in the wrong way.  And an atmosphere of tragedy does cling to A Chorus Line for gay men of my generation, I have to admit.  Drawn from actual interviews with dancers (or "gypsies," as they called themselves), the script is heavy with a defiantly fabulous gay attitude that would be all but washed away just years after the show's premiere (with the arrival of the AIDS epidemic).  Indeed, I think none of the four gay men who created this show lived to see the end of its triumphant Broadway run.  Thus, seen in retrospect, the sense of threat that hangs over A Chorus Line - the fear deep inside these dancers that someday they'll lose the ability to dance - seems touchingly naïve.  These people had no idea what was about to hit them.

Getting down and Dirty at the North Shore

After their great performances, these "Scoundrels" deserve a rest.

"What you lack in grace you more than make up for in vulgarity," the lead of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels quips at one point to his sidekick, and it's the kind of back-handed compliment that pretty much sums up the whole show.  Spawned in the shadow of The Producers, Scoundrels starts out broad and bawdy - and then just gets broader and bawdier, its shenanigans always laced with smart-alecky, Mad-Magazine-style wit.  But this seems to be (again, as the show itself would have it) merely a case of "giving 'em what they want": Scoundrels survived a slew of lukewarm reviews on Broadway, went on to win a Tony for one of its stars, and seems to have been touring somewhere ever since.

And now it's at Beverly's North Shore Music Theatre, in a jazzy, snazzy production that should prove a hit, because it definitely gives the crowd what it wants - even though I began to tune out well before the last whoopee-cushion gag (although I'm speaking metaphorically; the whoopee cushion, oddly enough, never makes its appearance).  I'm hardly immune to raunchy humor - but I'm not a fan of repetition; and while Scoundrels seems to just want you to let out a great big horselaugh (which you're happy to do), it then wants you to do it again, and again, and again.  Indeed, its tone and attack never vary for two and half hours (the physical schtick in the second half particularly begins to drag).

But if I don't have the stamina of a horse, a lot of people do, and they were clearly enjoying the hell out of this show the night I saw it.  And to be honest, in many ways Scoundrels, which some have called "Son of The Producers" is actually quite a bit better than The Producers.  David Yazbeck's score and lyrics are definitely stronger: the finale's hook is actually memorable, as is "Great Big Stuff," which cleverly parodies its own stupidity - plus there's a hilarious ballad near the end that ruthlessly savages Broadway's sappy little broken heart.  And every now and then, hidden in its adolescent-suburban vision of sophistication (and its knowing acknowledgment of its own bad taste) there's a nugget of genuine, if crude, wit.  After all, listening to your kid brother's dirty jokes can be pretty funny.

Jennifer Cody and Brent Barrett face off in "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels."

And Yazbeck and book writer Jeffrey Lane couldn't ask for a stronger cast than the one at the North Shore to put over their material, whatever its virtues.  The sets are again pretty minimal, and the dancing still hasn't reached the "old" North Shore's athletic standard - but the stars are of exceptionally high wattage, as they're mostly folks who know their way around Broadway, or have actually toured with this show before.  Lead Brent Barrett is perhaps more distant than debonair as Lawrence Jameson, the smooth "scoundrel" who romances women away from their jewelry in a Riviera resort.  But he's got a strong voice, chiseled looks, and a skillful versatility that covers all the many bases he's got to run, as the show requires that he channel Harvey Korman one minute, then Cary Grant the next.  This smooth swindler still can't prevent, however, the hyperactive D.B. Bonds from stealing almost every scene from him as his less "classy" sidekick, Freddy.

Or from being upstaged by a bevy of talented women, either.  As the socialite who's even tackier than her seducers, Jennifer Cody (above) romped off with the whole production, and Brynn O'Malley proved a bright blonde firecracker (a kind of Kristin-Chenoweth-in-waiting) as the gal who just may be beating the big boys at their own game.  Even on the sidelines there was great work, from John Scherer and Lynne Wintersteller as a corrupt police captain and a sweetly clueless society dame who still carries the torch for her swindler.  Director Mark Martino punched everything up, and kept all the "great big stuff" moving with appropriate zip.  Because, I know, I know, sometimes you just have to give people what they want.

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.

Walking in Memphis . . . I mean Beverly . .

A scene from Memphis.

Just one more rah-rah for the home team. Broadway handed the Tony for Best Musical to Memphis on Sunday. But if you were a fan of the North Shore Music Theatre (in its former incarnation, under Jon Kimbell) you saw Memphis . . . wait for it . . . seven years ago, in 2003, when it was a world premiere up in Beverly. It's nice to know, of course, that New York does eventually catch up to the Boston suburbs - but needless to say, it will cost you a lot more to see Memphis now than it did then!

It's official - the North Shore is back!

According to the theatre's website:

Massachusetts businessman Bill Hanney has reached an agreement with Citizens Bank to purchase the North Shore Music Theatre property.

Mr. Hanney is currently putting together a new business plan and management team to reopen North Shore Music Theatre in the spring/summer of 2010.

Rumors have been bubbling about a show in development for this summer. Stay tuned.

North Shore officially goes bust, amid new questions

Good-bye to all that: the North Shore's award-winning Showboat.

The North Shore Music Theatre has officially closed its doors, according to a statement on its website. The theatre had been struggling for several months to raise up to $2 million to fund a shortened season - but the real zinger, mentioned for the first time today as far as I know, is the theatre's debt load of $10 million. Given that number, the efforts of the last few months look like folly, and the excuse that the company's dire straits were caused by recent programming decisions looks like delusion (if not deception). And questions such as "How did the situation grow so dire?" immediately arise; you don't wind up with that kind of balance sheet after a single bad season. My guess is that the North Shore has been adrift for some time, perhaps since the fire that swept through its stage two years ago, and has been operating without a viable financial plan in place to eventually pay off the debts that renovation incurred. Elsewhere on the Internet, rumors are swirling, mostly about (now former) Artistic Director Barry Ivans jumping ship and heading for Pittsburgh (and apparently leaving a lot of bad blood behind). It may take a long time before we really know what went down at the North Shore - if we ever know. In the meantime, we're left without a venue in the Boston area devoted to fully professional musical theatre, one of the great, original American art forms. Perhaps such a venue will eventually appear. In the meantime I will miss the North Shore greatly.

Takin' it to the Street

Patrick Ryan Sullivan coaches Melissa Lone in 42nd Street. Photo by Paul Lyden.

What crystal ball was NSMT's Barry Ivan peering into when he decided to produce 42nd Street? Did he know months ago that the stock market would soon tank, a depression would be at hand, and America would be right back where it was in 1933, the year of the original Busby Berkeley movie's premiere? Perhaps this strange coincidence was serendipity (of a sort!), but it gives the dazzling North Shore production a surprising resonance it wouldn't otherwise have: not only is this the best show in town, it's also the most timely. If your 401(k) has you down, this is the ticket to chase those blues away, if only for a few blissful hours.

And truth be told, the stage version of 42nd Street - devised for Broadway by Gower Champion during hard times in 1980 - is in many ways a marked improvement over the original (compare clips below): it's got roughly the same sentimentally hard-boiled plot, but the Harry Warren score has been stacked with songs from his other hits, so the musical boasts not just "42nd Street" and "Shuffle Off to Buffalo," but such golden oldies as "We're In the Money," "Lullaby of Broadway," and "I Only Have Eyes for You." Add to that mix of melodies a zippy book and a seemingly endless parade of top-drawer tap dancing (choreographed by Michael Lichtefeld, who impressed with last summer's Bye Bye Birdie), and you have what amounts to an entertainment powerhouse. I almost defy you not to enjoy this show.


Ruby Keeler demonstrates why her star waned after 42nd Street.

If pressed, I could admit to a few caveats. The final number isn't quite the blow-out we hope for - that honor would have to go to "We're in the Money," which the cast sensibly reprises at the curtain call. I also wish the show had used a slower arrangement for "I Only Have Eyes for You," which the Flamingos later revealed as one of the most ravishing ballads ever written. I longed for a mirror overhead, to capture the patterns in the dancing (or perhaps a camera, to project them onto the screens around the theatre). And while the leads are all strong triple threats, there's no stunning star performance here, as there was in Birdie and Showboat. Actually, let me correct that - star Melissa Lone's tap skills are, indeed, stunning; the girl seems to clock taps at something close to light speed, and she projects just the right mix of moxie and winsomeness. The singing honors, however, would have to go to co-star Todd Lattimore, who hits high notes as easily as he scores high kicks. Hot on his heels, however, is Beth Glover, who invests the ill-fated diva (you know, the one who breaks her ankle so the "youngster" can "come back a star") with both an elegant vocal line and an amusingly sympathetic hauteur. I was least taken with Patrick Ryan Sullivan, who plays the impresario behind the show-within-the-show. Sullivan had everything it took to do the role - he's done it before, on Broadway and elsewhere - just at the performance I attended he seemed to slightly lag his costars in energy.


The North Shore version - faster, funnier, and lighter on its many feet.

The thing to savor most about 42nd Street, however, is its refreshing cynicism. The original movie was produced by Warner Bros., usually the home of Jimmy Cagney and other tough guys, and so the musical veered more toward Damon Runyon than Norman Rockwell, and shrugged off the Depression's hard knocks with devil-may-care attitude. In "We're in the Money," for example, the chorines warble that "When we see the landlord we can look that guy right in the eye!" And after the opening "honeymoon" verses of "Shuffle Off to Buffalo," comes the knowing rejoinder, "Matrimony is baloney/She'll be wanting alimony/In a year or so . . .She'll give him the Shuffle/When they're back from Buffalo." Ah, if only today's lyricists had the same cheek - then every show would remain as evergreen as 42nd Street.

Dream Boat

Melinda Cowan (center) croons with Michelle Dyer, Natalie Wisdom, Regina Gatti and Jenny Florkowski in Show Boat. Photo(s) by Paul Lyden.

Few works loom over their respective genres the way Show Boat does. The first "serious" book musical, the sprawling giant took New York by storm in 1927, simultaneously expanding and refining what was possible on the Broadway stage. Its artistic challenge was matched by its political daring, as it dealt directly with the issue of racism on the Mississippi, and in American life in general (its racist characters' off-hand use of the "n-word" shocks even today). As for its score - well, few have bettered Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II's masterpiece; it may or may not be the greatest Broadway score ever composed, but it is certainly the loveliest. The melodies easily rival the arias of Puccini and Verdi (though drawn from American sources), and the lyrics - let's just say few arias ever had it so good (the great gap between musical and opera, if you ask me, lies in the superiority of the American musical's lyrics).

Still, Show Boat is a little challenged as well as challenging - the ambitious book, drawn from Edna Ferber's novel, famously loses focus in its second act, as the plot paddles through something like three decades. Harold Prince's 1994 re-staging was a noble attempt at keeping the last half of Boat afloat as a kind of Tolstoyan meditation on the very passage of time; he cut a World's Fair setpiece, and punched up the arrival of the 'second generation' of show folk at the musical's end, rather than the reunion of (most) of the battered characters.

Judging from the North Shore's revival of Prince's production, his strategy was only partly successful - although Show Boat now does have some sense of epic depth as well as length. Its glory, however, still lies in its songs, which the North Shore seems to have realized, since they've assembled their best singing cast in years, and indeed one of the best ever heard in Boston. It's really too bad the arena itself is so weak acoustically, and the voices have to all be amplified - still, much of their beauty comes over nonetheless.

I don't think anyone could improve, for instance, on Philip Boykin's thunderous sounding of "Old Man River" (left), or Terry Burrell's heartbreakingly graceful rendition of "Bill" (below right). And for once the North Shore can boast a true lyric soprano and tenor in Teri Dale Hansen and Ron Bohmer (below), who together made "You Are Love" - one of the show's lesser-known songs - into a shimmering highlight. Indeed, one of the enduring strengths of Show Boat is how beautiful the minor melodies are (Prince even incorporated a haunting number written for the later movie, "Misry's Comin' Aroun'," here piercingly voiced by the sparkling Sharon Wilkins). Of course you knew this cast would shine in "Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man," but they also tear through "Queenie's Ballyhoo," "Life Upon the Wicked Stage," and many more. I have only one caveat with the musical performance - Prince gave the gorgeous "Why Do I Love You?" to Elaine Stritch, she of the eloquently lyrical croak. I can guess at the funny little poem Stritch may have made of this gem, but at the North Shore, Audrey Neenan - who is a very capable comic actress - simply doesn't have the pipes for it, and doesn't understand (as Stritch may have) how to make that part of the tender joke.


Teri Dale Hansen and Ron Bohmer, a match made in vocal, if not emotional, heaven.

Dramatically, the show is generally done in the North Shore's familiar hearty manner (here best evinced by the charming Gordon Stanley as Cap'n Andy) - which, alas, isn't always enough to distract us from the weaknesses of Hammerstein's book, which reduces all conflict to noble submission (particularly by the show's women). Meanwhile the Tony-winning choreography, by Susan Stroman, is slightly more subdued than we generally expect from the North Shore (and doesn't really exploit the arena stage's possibilities) but still includes some energetic stomps and and an electrifying Charleston near the finish. The set, by Evan Bartoletti, includes a serviceable evocation of the traveling Cotton Blossom, but is generally upstaged by Forence Klotz's sumptuous costumes (which neatly trace the passage of time through passing fashion). The most glaring gap remains the way the show simply drops Julie, the "mulatto" angel who twice saves darling, whiter-than-white Magnolia from ruin; if memory serves, Hollywood dragged Ava Gardner (!) back for a smiling-through-tears final scene - not a bad idea, actually. Still, given it was such a trailblazer, Show Boat remains remarkably successful in formal terms - and boasts a score that you will not only leave humming, but will also find impossible to forget.

Life on the bee list

Emy Baysic isn't one to be fazed by the likes of "phylactery.”

I've owed the North Shore Music Theatre a review of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee for some time now (this is its final weekend) and so I'm happy to report - at the last minute - that the NSMT has done a fine job with William Finn's latest Tony-winner. Director Jeremy Dobrish and choreographer Dan Knechtges have seamlessly transposed the post-Broadway version (mounted by Barrington Stage Company, which first developed the material) to the NSMT arena stage (one speller guilelessly observes, "I've never been in a gym in the round before!"), while adding a lot more scampering physical kick to several numbers. And the performances are strong all around, with at least three award-contenders among them.

But even though I'd give the production a solid "A," I think I'd only give the musical itself a "Bee +." (And as I was my elementary school's spelling champ, I'm pretty much the show's target audience.) Bee's book, though funny, is always a little thin, and in the second half (when it rather baldly works up more sympathy for the kids) a bit awkward, too. And Finn's score doesn't seem quite up to his usual standard - or perhaps it's that his quirky, rambling melodies are most striking when they lead to surprising, bracing little insights of the kind only neurotic adults can deliver, or appreciate. The kids of Putnam, needless to say, are loaded with "quirks," but rarely say anything truly unexpected (much less disturbing). This is what a friend of mine calls "cute quirk" - the slobby, asthmatic kid with the name that's always mispronounced, the perky Asian whiz who longs for once to fail, they all feel ever so slightly secondhand, like we saw them on some Judd Apatow series a few years ago. Indeed, the movie that set off the spelling bee craze, Spellbound, offered a far more genuinely quirky cast of characters - and even limned the shades of class and ethnicity that shadow the National Bee. Alas, all that has gone missing in Putnam County; instead we get liberal in-jokes about gay parents and the Bush administration (most of which fell flat up in Beverly, where it seems the last Republicans in Massachusetts have a redoubt).

Still, it would be wrong to pretend that within these parameters, the North Shore doesn't deliver a good time. Probably the best material in Rachel Sheinkin's book arrives in the vice principal's replies to the speller's incessant question, "Could you use that word in a sentence?," and Michael Mastro nails each cleverly knowing line with piss-perfect aplomb (I won't spoil them for you by giving any away). He's ably abetted by Sally Wilfert, who smartly channels the sexually repressed averageness of school administrators everywhere. Close on the heels of these star turns (and boasting the best pipes of all three) is the versatile Demond Green, who gives just enough satiric edge to both the bee's "comfort counselor" (a parolee who doles out hugs and juice boxes) and the bitchy gay dad of one of the contestants.

The performances of said spellers themselves (all played by adults) were consistently strong, but perhaps a little pushy. First among equals were Eric Petersen (as the now-iconic "William Bar-FAY") and local hero Miguel Cervantes (whose moment at the mike is undermined by a sudden e-r-e-c-t-i-o-n, at left). There were also engaging turns from Molly Ephraim, Emy Baysic, and Hannah Delmonte; only Clifton Guterman felt insufficiently grounded as future-stoner Leaf Coneybear (he did far better work in his coiled turn as the other gay dad). Together they kept the show's energy up, and the jokes flying; perhaps a little more v-e-r-i-s-i-m-i-l-i-t-u-d-e was too much to ask.

High-flying Birdie

The "Kids!" of Bye Bye Birdie network on their land lines.

Positive buzz had built around Bye Bye Birdie at the North Shore Music Theatre, so I checked out the show last weekend. And the good news is Birdie's buzz, as is usually the case with buzz, was right on target: the North Shore has a hit on its hands - this sly, sweet update boasts a dazzling cast (including many local teens), a smart set that smoothly turns its arena stage into a metaphor for the show itself, and a series of clever gambits and bright, antic dances. Indeed, the whole first half of the show plays like a nostalgic dream; and if its second act wobbles a bit by comparison, perhaps part of the problem is the original's meandering book. Still, even at cruising altitude, this Birdie remains an amusing, lively flight back to the days of sock hops and soda shops.

Of course way back in 1960, when the show premiered in a famous staging by Gower Champion (and featured Dick Van Dyke, Chita Rivera, and Paul Lynde) Birdie boasted a fresher edge than it has at the North Shore. Its central premise, a satire of Elvis Presley's 1958 induction into the Army, was both affectionate and pointed (Elvis returned to civilian life, and his pubescent public, just before Birdie's premiere): the show mocked the singer's white-trash manners and the naive hysteria of his fans, but also cast a skeptical eye on the paranoia his pelvis incited among heartland conservatives. This double take on mass culture per se marked something new in the Broadway musical, and the knowing tone of Bye Bye Birdie would slowly spread through the sitcoms and movies of the 60s.

And of course the same cultural cross-currents still ripple through American life today, but the North Shore focuses not on any contemporary echoes in the material, but on its period detail - a strategy which for the most part works winningly. Howard C. Jones's witty set, a spinning turntable just waiting for a giant 45, cleverly grounds us in the musical's metaphoric landscape, while giant "console" TVs overhead beam in corny 1950s imagery (such as the low-rent acts that often actually filled "The Ed Sullivan Show," on which "Conrad Birdie," the show's Elvis factotum, visits "Sweet Apple, Ohio" to say good-bye to the girls of America). And director/choreographer Michael Lichtefeld, in his debut at the North Shore, conjures all sorts of witty gambits for his staging - including a beautifully detailed slow-mo knock-out on "Ed Sullivan" - while simultaneously delivering some inspired, lightly-crazed dance numbers (in which local teens drafted from the North Shore's theatre academy easily keep up with the professionals).


Conrad Birdie seduces Sweet Apple, Ohio.

I think it has to be said, though, that neither Lichtefeld nor his talented cast can quite triumph over Birdie's book, which begins to wander in the second half (even if the score, which includes the classics "Put on a Happy Face" and "Lot of Livin' to Do," remains sturdy). The show has two show-stopping performers in Bianca Marroquin as Rosie, the Latina love interest of Birdie's songwriter/manager, Albert, and Eric Ulloa, as the hot-but-slobby Conrad Birdie himself. But after its first-act curtain on "Ed Sullivan," the show doesn't really know what to do with Birdie (it hints that he could corrupt the local teens but doesn't really follow through), and Rosie's conflict (Albert, her man, can't cut the apron strings in order to marry her) is a little too trite and a little too drawn out, and doesn't really reinforce the Birdie plot.

Still, both performers keep us engaged (even when hoofing their way through obvious filler like Rosie's gambol with the Shriners, during which Marroquin - at left - demonstrates that yes, she's in Rivera's league). And as Albert's monstrous mother, Mary-Pat Green turns her long-suffering schtick into an amusingly controlled tease. As Albert himself, James Patterson proves a looker and a brilliant hoofer, as well as a capable comedian, but he doesn't quite convey either Albert's inner conflict or his genuine love for Rosie (which would go a long way toward explaining why this spitfire wants to settle down in the suburbs). And even though the cast is strong across the board (with nice turns from Robert Saoud and Madeleine Doherty as Birdie's put-upon hosts), somehow the snide self-awareness of the original goes missing; the essential falseness of Sweet Apple (which of course is what made the sneer of Conrad Birdie - and Elvis - so appealing) is lost in the show's nostalgic glow, as is the slightly effeminate sheen of its vision of suburban manhood (after all, the original featured Paul Lynde and Charles Nelson Reilly).

Meanwhile the show's racial politics remain intriguing. "Conrad Birdie" has been cleansed of any sense of the "race record" crossover that, in part, made Elvis Presley so electric in the Eisenhower era; in fact, we're asked to believe that Birdie's songs could derive not from African-American blues but from some nice little white guy in New York. At the same time, said nice little white guy, oddly enough, has a Latina girlfriend - an amusing way to slip "race" back into the equation, if at a remove less likely to ruffle white feathers. Even this, of course, was too much for Hollywood, which in the film version deracinated the role and gave it to Janet Leigh (and then cast sex kitten Ann-Margret as the sweet, squeaky-clean Kim, who swoons for Birdie!). The North Shore, perhaps wisely, doesn't really do much with these lingering undertones (the dislike of Albert's mom for Rosie is given more a Freudian than a racist spin); indeed, it's hard to imagine what could be done with this material without alienating somebody. In its day, Birdie could soft-pedal its assimilationist message, while still insinuating it; today's attitudes, of course, while utterly committed to diversity on the surface, are actually far more complicated and recondite than the simple polarizations of 1960. Making Birdie truly soar might require, however, finding a key to that particular puzzle. Still, in the meantime I'm grateful for this smart, spritely revival - and I hope to see director Michael Lichtefeld listed again soon on the North Shore's marquee.

Reproducing The Producers

There's always been something very meta about Mel Brooks's The Producers (through June 1 at the North Shore Music Theatre, above). It's a show about a musical so offensive that everyone takes it as camp that is itself a musical so offensive that everyone takes it as camp. If that sounds harsh, perhaps it's because The Producers, unlike its show-within-a-show, Springtime for Hitler, came wrapped in democratizing irony: everyone, the marketing insisted, eventually became the butt of one of Mel Brooks's Borscht-Belt jokes, so no one could be offended. This of course wasn't quite true: yes, Brooks blew raspberries at buxom Swedes and nebbishy Jews and racist Irish cops, but he dodged African-American stereotypes, while upping the ante considerably on the gay jokes (even revising the movie to squeeze his über-queen director into Springtime for Hitler): so much so, in fact, that The Producers became not so much a joke on Nazis as a poke at show queens. The New York production, of course, deracinated this new angle via Nathan Lane: after all, how could a show be homophobic with the screamingly nelly Lane as its lead? And how could a show feed into prejudice when its target was Nazism? Especially when it was being directed by a woman (Susan Stroman), and being staged in New York, for god's sake?

As we all know, this carefully targeted strategy worked. The Producers re-minted political incorrectness as schmaltz: it was taken as a nostalgic, hilariously ironic look at (all-too-true) stereotypes by a brassy mensch, and even became the perfect tonic to the fear and trembling that reigned after 9/11; these big, broad, bigoted jokes were American, goddamnit, and we don't really mean them, but we love them anyway! So take that, Osama bin Laden!

But a funny thing happened on the way to the North Shore. Somehow, some of that "irony" leaked out of the show, and there are weird moments in which The Producers teeters perilously close to being just as nasty as it wants to be. After all, you can practically hear that banjo from Deliverance echoing through the backwoods of Beverly, so I shouldn't have been surprised at the murmurs of shocked disapproval from the audience when the lisping, mincing "Carmen Ghia" and "Roger DeBris" (Stuart Marland, below) began tripping across the NSMT stage. True, the crowd minded its manners, and even for the most part eventually "got" the spirit of the thing; even though they hated fags, they slowly realized that this was all meant in fun. And the actors weren't actually gay; they were just playing people from New York, you know.



Sigh. Well, I know I can survive a little homophobia; haven't I been surviving it all my life? It's just that I'm a little dizzy from the spinning "we don't mean it-yes we do" tone of the show (and I really wish Brooks would try the same trick with, say, Mandingo!, or maybe Dessa Rose - it would be interesting to see Terry Byrne wrap her perm around that).

The trouble is, that even setting my outraged queeniness aside, I can't pretend that The Producers is really all that fabulous. Like Byrne, some critics have tried to work up an argument that the North Shore's in-the-round staging was problematic, and it was, at times, but only because, shorn of the proscenium spectacle lavished on it in New York, The Producers is revealed as pretty thin stuff: not only does the relentless thump of the punchlines grow wearying, but the score is pedestrian, the lyrics predictable, and the plot largely a convoluted excuse to get to "Springtime for Hitler" (which is the show's best song). Actually, contrary to Byrne's complaints, the choreography by Bill Burns was generally clever and resourceful in its aping of Stroman. But it didn't help that the North Shore's lead, Scott Davidson, played his exasperation whiningly straight, and in far too low and naturalistic a key. As a result, he had no chemistry with sidekick Jim Stanek, who styled Leopold Bloom (yeah, even Joyce gets ribbed) at a more appropriately broad, frenetic pace, or even Amy Bodnar, who was probably the show's canny highlight as the blonde, beautiful, boob-a-licious Ulla (above right). Luckily, everyone else had gotten the right memo: Stuart Marland, though he hewed closely to Gary Beach's famous performance, made a high-energy Roger de Bris, while Fred Berman (Carmen Ghia) and (especially) Madeleine Doherty (Hold-me Touch-me) made their broader-than-broad assignments genuinely funny. Meanwhile the hard-working chorus - always reliable at the NSMT - was dazzling as ever in a truly spectacular rogue's gallery of high-kicking ethnic smears and stereotypes.

To be fair, "Springtime for Hitler" was still a hoot, with its tap-dancing stormtroopers and showgirls with pretzels on their heads: maybe this protean number is all by itself worth the price of admission. Or maybe a personal command performance, sans the Beverly audience, might restore the broad-but-harmless, anything-goes sheen to the show. But then again, maybe it would still look like one great idea thwarted by a desperate desire to throw everything at the wall and see what sticks. Although I suppose that's not the North Shore's fault.

Three's a crowd

Aaron Tveit (D'Artagnan) and John Schiappa (Athos) buckle some swash in The Three Musketeers.

When the usher handed me my program at the North Shore Music Theatre last Sunday, I noticed she already had opened it to the plot summary. "Read this," she whispered. "You'll need it."

It was good advice. The NSMT's new musical version of the Dumas classic follows its source closely - "to a fault," in fact, opined the Boston Globe - but without the clarity required to keep focus through the story's shifts in perspective and tone. I was able to hang on to the impacted first half via vague memories of my junior-high encounter with the novel, but only just. The second act, where Peter Raby's book drops a major subplot (Milady de Winter's imprisonment), flows more smoothly - largely because the development of Milady's nefariousness, even in its curtailed state, supplies the show a serviceable spine. Indeed, the sang froid of Kate Baldwin in that key role, combined with the show's good-but-not-great score and a final, rousing duel, brought most of the audience to their feet at the finale. Still, despite the current New York chatter around the production (which has been in development for some time), I'm afraid that it's still not in shape for the Great White Way (although it offers an amusing afternoon in Beverly).

But how to fix The Three Musketeers? I beg to differ (once again!) with the Globe's Louise Kennedy, who advises, "Give the guys a bunch of nifty capes and weapons, stitch together the merest scrap of a plot -- sure, keep Dumas's diamonds and the cardinal and the queen if you want, but make sure they're just a backdrop for the real stars, the musketeers -- and let the swordplay begin." (Sigh. If even the plot of The Three Musketeers is a bit too trying for the Globe's attention span, how in the world are we to take the paper seriously?)

Sure, the original Dumas is almost overstuffed with story, but the issue here isn't plot, frankly - it's stagecraft. Book author Raby and lyricist Paul Leigh simply drop the ball when it's time to pass it from leading man D'Artagnan to the court's intrigues and back again. The smart, screwball Richard Lester film managed this trick easily enough - should it be so hard for a musical? You wouldn't think so - but Raby and Leigh never clearly lay out who Cardinal Richelieu is, or what's at stake for Queen Anne (she doesn't get a single real scene with her lover, the Duke of Buckingham), and the swordplay and music, while solid, aren't strong enough to distract us from the vague sense that we're not exactly sure what's going on, or why everyone's riding to and from Paris (on barrels, no less - perhaps the least evocative props I've seen at the North Shore in a long time).

What the show needs is to lay out the major players, devise a much bigger, more athletic skirmish for Act I (where are all those tumbling singers from Seven Brides?), and yes, give the Three Inseparables (at left) a bit more comic stagetime. There are other tweaks I'd suggest: Mick Bleyer's Rochefort could use a dash more menace, and D'Artagnan and Constance need more of a love song (and one that draws out their parallel with the Queen and her consort); and while designer Lez Brotherston's scenery and costumes are richly done and certainly of the period, together with Hugh Vanstone's moody lighting they're a bit grim. There's no reason for The Three Musketeers to trash Dumas - but carrying off his threading of personal intrigue through impersonal history will require a book as fleet, and lyrics as sharp and precise, as the swordplay of the Musketeers themselves.

That was fast . . .

The North Shore Music Theatre has just announced they have found a successor to outgoing Artistic Director Jon Kimbell in director and choreographer Barry Ivan (looking overjoyed at left). From the press release:

“It is with great pleasure and sincere commitment that I accept this position,” said Mr. Ivan. “Under Jon Kimbell’s direction, NSMT has gained an outstanding reputation for artistic achievement, specifically in the areas of developing new works and providing outstanding theater arts and education programs. My overarching goal in moving forward is to work with the Board of Trustees and staff to build on these considerable accomplishments and further develop and implement the artistic vision of North Shore Music Theatre.”

A nationally recognized director and choreographer, Mr. Ivan’s versatile career includes work in New York City theater, television and film. His accomplishments range from directing and choreographing over 20 musicals at NSMT to being a guest director at Yale University; and his international credits include directing and choreographing West Side Story at the German State Opera. A four-time Independent Reviewers of New England (IRNE) nominee for Best Director and Best Choreographer, Mr. Ivan’s productions of The Full Monty and Hairspray at NSMT both received IRNE awards for Best Musical.

Highlights from Mr. Ivan’s extensive regional theater career include directing and choreographing Company starring Malcolm Gets and Michelle Pawk; Anything Goes starring Carolee Carmello; and several productions of Stephen Sondheim’s A Little Night Music, including a recent production starring Dee Hoty and Tony Award winning actress Beth Leavel. Actively involved in the development of new works, Mr. Ivan staged Tony Award winning composer Maury Yeston’s new musical, In The Beginning, and recently directed Tales of Tinsel Town for The Director’s Company in New York City.

Through the end of the 2007 season, Mr. Ivan will work closely with Jon Kimbell to ensure a smooth transition of the day-to-day Artistic Director and Executive Producer responsibilities. In February, 2008, Mr. Ivan will assume the full-time Artistic Director and Executive Producer role. In addition, Mr. Ivan plans to direct and choreograph at least one musical each season.

Log cabin club

Seven Brides a'leapin' for their Seven Brothers.

Sexism and the musical comedy seem to be a match made in heaven - or maybe our genes, if not just our jeans. What else could explain the durability of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, an entertainment loosely based on the classical tale of the rape of the Sabine women? Of course said "rape" was really an abduction (at least in the legends transcribed by Livy and Plutarch), and the tale is, in its entirety, an epic of war surmounted by sex (the Romans and the Sabines were eventually brought to peace by the abducted women, who cottoned to their new husbands).

In Stephen Vincent Benét's "Sobbin' Women," however, and the movie musical drawn from it - which transpose the story from Rome to nineteenth-century Oregon - the emphasis is on how adorable the all-American abductors really are. Indeed, in the musical's latest transmogrification (from Hollywood to Broadway, and then to the regional theatres, generally shedding weaknesses along the way), the sexual aspects of the abduction have been completely reversed - it's the eponymous seven brothers, not their seven brides, who are objectified. Thus the social status quo is preserved, even as the sexual one is subverted (see Giambologna's sexual take on the story at left, and the musical's, via actor Karl Warden, at right). Indeed, in its latest incarnation, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers targets two of the North Shore's key audiences - gay men and Republican women; it's truly a log cabin musical in more ways than one.

But what the hay, as it were - you should see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers not for its dopey sexual politics, or even for its abductors' abs, but for its dancing, as it features some of the most stunning numbers ever seen in the backwoods of Beverly. The dancing was the movie's famous strength, too - Michael Kidd devised wildly athletic numbers for his seven hoofers, and many of its spirited sequences (directed by Stanley Donen in lurid "Ansocolor") remain classics. But the North Shore (and its co-producing theaters, the Paper Mill Playhouse in New Jersey and Houston's Theatre Under the Stars) have not only picked up the movie's gauntlet, they've thrown it back in its flickering face: these seven brothers turn such setpieces as the "Challenge Dance" into something like an Olympic free floor routine, turning somersaults and backflips on a dime and tossing their frilled, beribboned fiancees into the air like so many nickels. Choreographer Patti Colombo and director Scott Schwartz have together worked a small miracle with their staging (which was originally designed for the proscenium houses of its co-producers) - Seven Brides doesn't just look tailored for the North Shore, it looks as if it was born there.

Not that the singin' is anything to sniff at. The movie's score, by Johnny Mercer and Gene de Paul, was as sturdy as the trees in the brothers' forest (which in the set design by Anita Louizos neatly retract into the ceiling), and the current version has retained a haunting ballad from the Broadway version, "Love Never Goes Away," by Al Kasha and Joel Hirschhorn. And unlike in the recent Crazy for You, the North Shore's cast sports serious pipes as wells as gams; they put the songs over, and then some. In particular lead hunk Edward Watts (above left, with Michelle Dawson), brings to the role of elder brother Adam a lustrous high baritone that he can effortlessly power into tenor territory. As his unhappy Eve, Dawson brings less vocal panache to the proceedings, but supplies a bushel and a peck of spunk 'n sass n' feistiness, etc. I found the brothers' mooncalf antics a bit on the broad side, but I have to confess the broads in the audience ate up their shenanigans. Kudos also to the balletic aplomb of Travis Kelley, and the plaintive vocals of Christian Delcroix - the Sabine women would indeed have stopped their sobbin' with bros (and beaux) like these.

The changing of the guard continues

John Kimbell, Artistic Director of the North Shore Music Theatre, announced yesterday that he would be stepping down from his post as of January 2008; over the coming year, he will assist in a national search for his replacement. John La Rock, currently Associate Producer, will serve as Producer until the new artistic director is found. Kimbell has been with the North Shore since 1983, and under his aegis, the theatre has grown from essentially a big-budget summer stock house to a respected regional musical theatre with educational outreach and its own musical development program (the theatre has developed 41 new plays and musicals). I had a special affection for the North Shore, which seemed to me to strike an honorable balance between worthy new work and the feel-good fare that much of its audience wanted to see. I think the theatre will have to look far and wide to replace Kimbell. Furthermore, his departure marks the third thunderbolt to strike the Boston theatre scene this year (both the Huntington and the ART are also in the process of finding new Artistic Directors). It makes you wonder if there isn't some kind of artistic-director flu bug going around; or is there something in the water? At any rate, I've never heard of such a complete changing of the guard in any city's theatre community, anytime, anywhere. Meanwhile, as if in some kind of unintentionally ironic counterpoint, Terry Byrne has begun popping up in the Globe, and of course Ed Siegel can now be heard on WBUR. Why can't these critics take a cue from the people they cover?