Reviewed by David Spencer
Early Fall, l984. Joseph Papp's Public Theatre was holding auditions for its production of Puccini's "La Bohème" which would headline Linda Ronstadt. The late Wilford Leach was to direct, the late Bill Elliott would be musical director ... and I had written the English adaptation and lyrics.
The previous Friday's New York Times theatre column had announced that Vanessa Williams -- still fresh out of the nudie photos scandal that had unseated her as Miss America -- was slated to play our Musette. A brazen fabrication of her P.R. people. In fact, all she'd been slated to do was audition. But to be honest, we were hopeful.
She arrived for the occasion with her parents, management and boyfriend in tow. Her Mom played an oversimplified piano accompaniment as Vanessa, not having soprano pipes, sang every note in "Musette's Waltz" a preposterous octave lower than written in a throaty, weak voice. When the Williams contingent exited the rehearsal studio, most of our respectfully frozen smiles gave way to various degrees of flabbergasty. Wilford quietly rose from his seat, crossed to the door, made sure it was closed, and turned to face us. "What we just saw," he decreed, "is not to be discussed outside this room. With anyone. If there's any gossip on the street, I'll know where it came from. And you can bet I'll find out who's responsible." He didn't say any more than that. And we soberly moved on.
A number of weeks later, most of the parts had been filled--save for Musette (though at the last minute, the role would go to Cass Morgan) and her romantic counterpart, Marcel. We'd seen every eligible actor/singer in New York and it just wasn't happenin'. Until Jim Mulkin, casting director, brought in this tall, prettily handsome young specimen who'd flown in from Los Angeles. His audition demeanor was innocuous and polite -- but when he opened his mouth to sing, the voice was that of a baritone angel. With the kind of distinctiveness that once marked Raitt and Keel, and the added acting chops that further distinguished Presnell and Drake. A leading man like this hadn't come around in decades.
He finished singing, uttered a courteous thank you and left. I turned to my colleagues. Wilford's pasty complexion was, if anything, even paler; Bill was simply in tears. Wilford actually had trouble speaking for a moment, but when he did get the shaky words out, they were addressed to Mulkin, "Well, you might as well run after him and tell him he has the part." And Mulkin took off in a white heat. "La Bohème" would be the young actor's New York debut.
Not long after we started rehearsals, one of Mulkin's casting director colleagues would say to him, jealously: "So, you're the one who snared Howard McGillin"...
Ten years later. Both Williams and McGillin were toplining in "Kiss of the Spider Woman" on Broadway. Williams had gotten a lot smarter in the interim; while McGillin had lost none of his edge. And they were joined by TV heart-throb Brian Mitchell -- who had just finished a stint on Broadway in the title role of "Jelly's Last Jam". Not only was "...Spider Woman" still in first-rate shape -- it had improved. Significantly enough to warrant another cast album. (Historical note: the last Broadway show to be recorded twice during its initial run, nearly three decades ago, was "Hello, Dolly!" when Pearl Bailey and an all-black cast went into the show that had previously starred Carol Channing.)
What makes this album significant, other than its sterling new cast, is the narrative cohesion, much improved over that of the first album (on the RCA label), which was much less successful in putting its songs in context. (Since at least half of the savvy, often unexpected Kander/Ebb score is commentary by way of pastiche, the environment needs to be set up carefully, lest the songs lose their dramatic edge.) As produced by cast album guru Thomas Z. Shepard, this single CD of the new cast, nearly 80 minutes in length, features songs and scenes from Terrence McNally's powerful libretto, to create one of the most evocative show-to-recording translations ever.
Based on the novel by Manuel Puig (which spawned the 1985 film), it takes place in ³a Latin American prison, sometime in the recent past.² The prison is a hellish place in which torture, abuse and trumped up charges are the order of the day. The story is about the unlikely bond that grows between two prisoners in the same cell. One is a bitter political dissident, Valentin (Mitchell). The other is an effeminate homosexual, Molina (McGillin), who, in his civilian life, was a window dresser; now that he is in prison, he escapes the daily torment by fantasizing about the two most important women in his life: his mother (Mimi Turque) and his screen idol Aurora (Williams). The latter is but a shadow; but the former is very real, and it is with the health of the mother that the Warden (Herndon Lackey) blackmails Molina into betraying his cellmate¹s secrets. Aurora appears in musicalized fantasy sequences that comment ironically--and in flamboyant showbiz fashion--on the "real-life" drama.
It is in the role of Aurora that Vanessa Williams succeeded Chita Rivera. The much younger Ms. Williams couldn't duplicate her predecessor's technique, savvy or experience. Cleverly, she didn't try. Instead, she capitalized on her pop-singer image, which neatly accommodated the (seemingly) bulletproof template for the role (devised by director Harold Prince, librettist Terence McNally, composer John Kander and lyricist Fred Ebb). This Aurora, rather than an arch, knowing musical theatre veteran, was an elusive music video phantom. Ms. Williams, singing in her proper alto range--which has improved significantly in a decade--is still not a great vocalist. But years of pop stylization have taught her a few interpretive tricks, all of which she puts to use on the album.
The truly memorable performances, though, belong to the leading men. McGillin is quite different from his predecessors, Brent Carver and Jeff Hyslop, who performed the role as a flamboyant character actor's turn. McGillin, instead, maintains a unique balance, projecting the character's effeminism without sacrificing any of the actor's romantic leading man qualities. Subsequently there's a curious steely strength informing Molina's mincing façade. The audience loved the dichotomy on stage, and it is preserved lovingly on the disk. And there's no denying that, of anyone who's played the role, McGillin sings it the prettiest, with his distinctive mix of power and delicacy.
As for Brian Mitchell's Valentin: Having shown himself an able song-and-dance man in "Jelly's Last Jam", Mr. Mitchell demonstrates an admirable grit ain the role vacated by Anthony Crivello. His singing voice lacks the clean edge of Crivello's, tending toward a throaty spread on high sustained notes--nonetheless Mitchell (best known as Dr. Jackpot Jackson on "Trapper John, M.D.") claims the role as his own, less because of a different approach than, simply, his own distinct persona.
Far from being a "gimmick" album to capitalize on a recording star's name -- even though that may be precisely how the recording came about -- this is an entirely necessary CD. And of the two recordings out there, it is the version of choice.