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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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112789
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1990-09-19
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THEATER, Page 87Warmed Over and Not So HotBroadway musicals freely filch, so why not from the best?By William A. Henry III
Bertolt Brecht, who plucked plots from Shakespeare, Moliere
and Farquhar, reportedly said the best writers never borrow; they
always steal. Brecht's error was limiting his dictum to the best
writers. The rest are equally ready to find inspiration where
someone else found it before. This is especially true of writers
of musicals: attempts at original stories have become all but
unheard of. With six weeks left, the '80s have yet to yield a
noteworthy American musical not derived from another source,
whether fiction (Big River), folklore (Into the Woods), movies
("Nine") or a painting (Sunday in the Park with George).
This adaptations-only rule has been in full force as five
song-and-dance spectaculars in rapid succession have reached the
Broadway stage. Grand Hotel, which opened last week, and Meet Me
in St. Louis are influenced by films that were in turn based on
books. Gypsy, which also opened last week, stars Tyne Daly of TV's
Cagney & Lacey in a revival drawn from the memoirs of stripper
Gypsy Rose Lee. Prince of Central Park, which quickly closed,
derived from a book that had also prompted a made-for-TV movie.
Brecht's own The Threepenny Opera, featuring rock star Sting as the
seductive villain Macheath, is freely filched from British satirist
John Gay's 1728 The Beggar's Opera. Sad to say, although each show
could boast ingenious design and staging or beguiling acting, far
from the best writers have been at work.
Gypsy, a slapstick but chilling portrait of the ultimate stage
mother, faithfully evokes the original Jerome Robbins production,
including, alas, the cutesy, numbers-strung-together Arthur
Laurents libretto. If Daly cannot quite dislodge from memory the
performances of Ethel Merman and Angela Lansbury, particularly not
as a singer, she rivals them as a force of nature. Coarse,
thoughtless, unscrupulous and fierce, her Mama Rose is nonetheless
just likable enough to explain why two daughters and a surrogate
husband stick around so long and forgive so much. Among supporting
players, only Jonathan Hadary, as Rose's agent and lover, excels.
Meet Me in St. Louis lacks the main asset of the 1944 film,
Judy Garland, while shouldering its burden, the wan, uneventful
plot. It seeks not only happy endings but also happy beginnings,
happy middles, happy everything in between. Yet its charms include
six songs from the film plus eleven more from the same team, Hugh
Martin and Ralph Blane; a Disneyesque confection of Victorian
houses; ice skating on a real-looking pond; a trolley that moves;
and a lighted-up 1904 World's Fair.
The Threepenny Opera originated as a leftist diatribe, and is
even more of one in John Dexter's snarly, airless staging. Michael
Feingold's translation claims to reflect more authentically the
1928 Berlin debut than the Marc Blitzstein version popularized in
the '50s. It is surely less effective. For example, it freights
the naive scrubwoman anger of Pirate Jenny with sophisticated
detail that is out of character, and enervatingly transforms the
last syllable of the second-act finale from a strident long vowel
to a swallowed short one. Jocelyn Herbert's cumbersome set
obstructs movement, draining energy. But emotion intensifies after
a dozy first act. As a singer, Sting needs the help of a recording
studio, although he summons at least a shadow of the requisite
cavalier charm. The main virtue is Kurt Weill's indestructible
score.
Grand Hotel is set in the poshest spot in Berlin in 1928, the
very year that Threepenny premiered. In this rarefied place, even
victims are privileged: a bankrupt baron (David Carroll), an
embattled industrialist (Timothy Jerome), a ballerina in decline
(Liliane Montevecchi) and her dogsbody, a closet lesbian (Karen
Akers). A dying accountant, played by Michael Jeter with a dazzling
mix of febrile weakness and life-grabbing gusto, has enough money
to live out his waning days in luxury, while a typist (Jane
Krakowski) who moves from man to man always has her looks to fall
back on.
The libretto depends too heavily on whether the industrialist
will turn crooked to save his neck (anyone can see he will) and on
a love match between the baron and the ballerina that ends almost
before it has begun. Director-choreographer Tommy Tune provides a
pretentious last-minutes ballet between characters introduced as
love and death. Despite these shortcomings, Grand Hotel is the
musical winner of the season, bringing to mind, if not quite
matching, the kinetic narratives of Harold Prince, Bob Fosse and
Michael Bennett in their heyday. Tune takes a set more cluttered
than Threepenny's -- fluted columns, a revolving door, dozens of
chairs -- and weaves around it a ceaseless flow. If some of the
wizardry is borrowed from bygone auteur directors, that is in
keeping with the real meaning of Brecht's dictum: know enough to
take the best from the best.