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Simon Callow and Judi Dench redeemed Merry Wives of Windsor.
bitter strife of the 1984 miners strikes, the boy’s
artistic struggle creates both upheaval and intense
love and support in his family. The result is a work
of great hope and understanding. The film was
made to be a musical, and it has found sympathet
ic and powerful interpreters. Elton John and Lee
Hall have created a score that manages to be both
pop-catchy and simply moving, and Daldry has
created a production that has the requisite musical
theater glitz yet also manages to be even more
emotionally truthful and heartbreaking than the
original film.
The cast is simply amazing and is centered on
the multiple casting of the two main child charac
ters—1 imagine all of them are super, but I cannot
imagine anyone could surpass the remarkable work
of Leon Cooke, who was an incredible Billy the
night I caught the show. Utterly sincere and natu
ral in his acting and unleashing a torrent of passion
ate, technically brilliant and emotionally devastat
ing movement in his many dance solos (the onstage
Billy really dances, unlike Jamie Bell’s carefully edit
ed work in the film), Cooke gave a performance
that was simply unforgettable.
On the stages of London’s two main theatrical
institutions, the Royal Shakespeare Company and
the Royal National Theatre, things remained as
impressive as usual—with a few reservations.
I was able to catch a number of productions in
Stratford; some work was superb, some less so. The
closing production at the venerable Royal Shakes
peare Theatre (before its multimillion-dollar reno
vation) was a silly new musical version of the silly
Merry Wives of Windsor. Featuring a forgettable set
of songs (that hoedown title song was one I would
happily never want to hear again) and an over
wrought, sometimes downright stupid staging, it
also included a lovely, delicately funny Mistress
Quickly from the peerless Judi Dench and a mon
strously funny Falstaff from Simon Callow.
Stratford’s brand new Courtyard theater (a fan
tastically theatrical space) played host to two major
events: artistic director Michael Boyd’s cycle of the
complete history plays and former artistic director
Trevor Nunn’s rep pairing of King Lear and
Chekhov’s The Seagull. I was only able to catch
Boyd’s Richard III, but it made me desperate to see
the rest of the cycle. Boyd is a clever, visionary direc
tor, and his Richard—set in a decrepit contemporary
world of mobile phones, military bombast and
rotting metal—was a nightmare of evil centered
round the dangerous, overgrown baby petulance and
murderous bile of Jonathan Slinger in the title role.
Nunn’s double bill was less successful. His King
Lear— featuring a somewhat restrained and moving
lan McKellan as the mad monarch—was an
overblown, shamelessly theatrical vision of the work.
No hare-stage, Beckett introspection for Mr. Nunn—
here were masses of incense, sumptuous Hapsburg-era
gowns and thunderous organ music against a set of
sweeping red velvet drapes and crystal chandeliers
that were spectacularly destroyed in a stage-drench
ing storm scene. It was Shakespeare as grand opera,
and it was a fun, if unsubtle or layered, evening.
The other half of the rep was another matter
entirely. Chekhov’s Seagull is not really a great play
to do in rep with the same cast, director and design
team with one of Shakespeare’s most epically diffi
cult works. The lack of attention was evident in
this lugubrious, tedious production. Many of the
less-experienced members of the Lear cast had lead
ing roles here and were simply not up to the chal
lenge. The rest of the cast wasn’t helpful, either—
even the usually marvelous Frances Barber
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managed to turn Arkadina into a bipolar bitch
alternately shrill and lifeless. Best was the cynical
Masha of Monica Dolan (whose vicious Regan was
also a highlight of Lear— who could forget seeing
her manic response to Gloucester’s blinding—
jumping up and down and squealing like a little girl
who had been promised torture-pom for her
birthday and got it). Even the mealy designs look
exactly like what you’d get if you asked a designer
to do The Seagull in rep with a gigantic production
of King Lear— three birch trees and some stock
furniture stuck in front of a badly painted backdrop.
Maybe it will all improve in time—the two shows
set off on a world tour this fall, including many Daniel Radcliffe exposed his magic wand in Equus.
stops in the United States.
ing tribute from Kander to his writing partner), great
ack home on the Great White Way, there were
designs and a splendid cast of Broadway vets led by
some dismal failures. The magical teaming of two
the brassy Debra Monk and the gentle elegance of
theatrical legends—Angela Lansbury and Marion
David Hyde Pierce. Pierce, who deservedly won
Seldes—managed to be a pathetic disappointment
a Tony for this performance, is a model of wit, sincer
because of the inane inadequacy of the wretched
ity and charm—three things sadly missing from the
new play, Deuce, that Terrence McNally had
majority of contemporary artists.
anchored them to. Another baffling waste of talent
Lastly there was Spring Awakening, this year’s
was on view in Lovemusik, a horrid bio-musical of mega-hit and the darling of critics and people who
Kurt Weill and Lotte Lenya that was a low point in
were tired of going back to see Wicked. While there
the remarkable careers of all those attached to it.
was much to admire about this show—the truly
John Doyle turned his deconstructivist laser on
amazing cast of brazen, young nonstars throwing
Sondheim’s acidic cocktail musical Company with
themselves into the show with delirious abandon
out much illuminating effect. Raul Esparza was a lac
and gorgeous voices, the eccentric acrobatic chore
erating presence as the confused Bobby, but nothing
ography of Bill T. Jones, Michael Mayer’s cogent,
else worked, including the cast-as-orchestra Doyle
mobile direction—it was still overhyped to the point
conceit, which here just looked bizarre with sax and
of inanity. The majority of the New York critics
tuba players in chic haute couture.
seemed to have suffered a collective bout of artistic
There was some enjoyment to be had from retro
amnesia calling this cool, if derivative, show ground
delights. Two revivals gave much pleasure: The
breaking and unique. Pop-rock musicals have been
classic World War 1 drama Journey’s End was given
around for a long time, rock bands have been on
a powerful account by director David Grindly and
stage for at least 20 years, people have worn both
a marvelous ensemble cast, and the old-fashioned
period costumes and held hand mikes many rimes
but lovely musical 110 in the Shade was given new
before, and since when has Duncan Shiek's aging
luster by the incandescent Audra McDonald, one
adolescent angst been a cutting-edge pop sound?
of Broadway’s greatest treasures.
Yes, the first act ends with simulated sex, and the
The new retro-musical Curtains (sadly the last
11 o’clock number is called “Totally Fucked”—but an
work by the electric team of Kander and Ebb—
overwhelming, groundbreaking, utterly original show
lyricist Fred Ebb passed away during its creation) was
this doesn’t make. Spring Awakening is a fun, exciting
the best new-musical-that-kxrked-like-it-had-been-
and beautifully performed piece of musical theater,
but it isn’t the second coming. Wake up. ©
written-in-1956 of the year. A delightful, delicately
B
self-parodying evening of musical comedy, it was
great fun blessed with a sassy, catchy score (including
one gorgeous new ballad, “1 Miss the Music," a touch-
JON K retzu is associate artistic director of Artists
Repertory Theatre in Portland.