Guys
and Dolls is one
of the very
few shows in the constantly active literature that features a book that
was
cobbled around an existing score. While Jo Swreling still retains a contractual credit as
co-author,
his book was jettisoned by the producers and it fell to Abe Burrows
to write a new one,
retaining most of Frank
Loesser’s near-complete
score.
Though what we now know as the modern book musical was still gestating,
this
does explain certain book scenes that have material that might be sung,
that
isn’t; as well as certain songs that sneak into the story indirectly,
or have
unusual structural placement (i.e. how else does a charm moment like
“Marry the
Man Today” wind up as an 11:00 number?). But such is the alchemical mix
of the
original creative teams’ sensibilities that when the show is played
effectively, even those of us who scrutinize musical theatre structure
don’t
think about it too much and just go with the flow.
What
struck me most about director Des McAnuff’s new production of Guys and Dolls
is that, for the first
time ever, I spend the show
thinking about the
structural
idiosyncrasies. And I had to ask myself why.
To
be honest, I had entered the theatre expecting (from all I’d
unavoidably heard)
that this would be yet another example of Des feeling as if he has to
put his
mitts all over something that’s rock solid without him, just to make it
his (as
he did to the, if not rock solid,
sound enough How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying [H2$],
about a decade ago).
But while
there’s some degree of that—in the physical production’s scenic
projections and an utterly superfluous choreographed prologue in which
a silent
dancer/actor meant to be Damon Runyon (author of the short stories that are
basis for the show’s source
material) himself, wanders through the city, observing and, presumably
collecting material—McAnuff seems to be doing his best to play things
straight. Straighter, in some ways, than Guys and Dolls has ever been played before. Not as
extreme as
slice-of-life, but with a certain conscious evocation of streetwise (if
not
exactly gritty) realism. It’s an imposed concept, but unlike all the
hoo-hah in
H2$, it isn’t
distracting
enough to keep you feeling the director’s touch as an intrusion.
Yet
for most of the evening, Guys and Dolls seemed off, like
orange juice mere hours after it has first started to turn. It had
enough of
the original flavor and body to be recognizable and was still somewhat
potable,
but it wasn’t as bright or as fresh as it needed to be optimally.
It
took me most of the evening to figure out what was wrong, but
eventually it
dawned on me.
While
you can (and must)
play Guys
and Dolls for real
emotional
stakes, you can’t play
it for
realism. Verisimilitude, yes, Realism, no. Damon Runyon’s New York is a
mythical
New York, no realer than Middle Earth or Brigadoon, and it brings with
it its
own set of expectations and obligations in order to come alive. The
tough guy
locution that often shies from contractions, the diction that has a
leading
lady say “poy-son” rather than “person,” the rhythm that makes a guy
live up to
his name when, responding to an inquiry about how things are going, he
says,
“Nicely-nicely, thank you,” without a noticeable break or comma
between the
two nicelys, all of
these are as
much an integral part of the piece as “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the
Boat.” And
it doesn’t matter that you can “choose” to do without them, or to alter
them—they come along for the ride anyway, in the spirit of the piece,
like the aftertaste—what epicureans call the finish—of a really
great recipe or wine. Like the kh sound
in Yiddish that distinguishes a true speaker from a pretender.
Yet
it is those small details that the director has decided to mess with;
and
though it’s a more subtle, arguably more human experiment than his attempt
to rid H2$ of its
60s brand of sexism (which in truth existed
mostly on the
surface, with an
undercurrent of, what was for that time, fairly hip social commentary),
all it
succeeds in doing is drawing conspicuous attention to the things that
are
missing. Additionally…it’s a half-assed concept because it can only
be given a half-assed
execution: too much in the
text roots the proceedings in the origin tone, the origin sound, and
doesn’t
lend itself to the alteration—so the production has one foot
quicksanded
in tradition and another flailing for purchase outside the bubble that
would
otherwise protect it.
The
casting, and commensurately the cast’s performances, are subsequently
all over
the place, with the supporting cast vacillating between lyric realism
and
cartoon cameo.
The
disparity is less pronounced among the leads, but they still, all of
them, come
off more as temporary visitors to Damon Runyon’s world than bona fide
denizens.
Craig Bierko and Kate
Jennings Grant as Sky
Masterson
and Sarah Brown have the best end of the deal because they have the
“straight”
romantic roles, which lets them explore some interesting new
line-readings, but
somehow you hear them as part of an exploration, not as fully
internalized; Lauren
Graham’s Adelaide has
the
potential for genuine greatness, and at times embodies an approach
that’s
original and hers, but, paradoxically, in being cut off from things
like the
conspicuous Brooklyn accent (which is embedded in the rhythm of the
lines),
she’s cut off from some of the role’s tool kit. (Though I have to add
something
else: where in Pal Joey, Martha
Plimpton’s turn in a harder-edged version of a similar character seemed
studied
and self-conscious, Ms. Graham, likewise a newcomer to musicals, is
almost
dazzlingly unaffected, and seems very at home and natural in the
medium.) Oliver
Platt’s Nathan Detroit
seems to
personify the confusion of the production, exposing the poor
fellow—Platt, I mean, not Detroit—in surprising ways. Not for
nothing was he cast in the film Funny Bones as an unfunny son trying in vain to
follow in his
comedian father’s legendary footsteps. And it isn’t that Platt can’t be
funny,
per se: alone, his turn in The West Wing as White House legal counsel Oliver
Babish proved he can turn a witty
phrase with cadence-perfect timing—but Babish was an intellectual.
Nathan
Detroit is just a “dese, dem and dose” guy trying to find a place to
hold a
crap game, and Platt seems to be fighting a losing battle with his own
intelligence.
Indeed,
it may be the undercurrent of “Look how smart we’re being with this material” that’s
the
spoiling ingredient. When material is already smart, your best bet is to stay out of
its way,
lest you dilute its strengths by interfering. So many directors don’t
understand that, or if they do, are afraid of it, and the fear is
usually
rooted in the auteur mentality
that demands that somehow, some way, a distinctive signature be left. And tricky business, that:
Compensating
for different physical venues (Susan Schulman’s vest pocket Sweeney
Todd) is one thing,
because those challenges, at their
best, force re-examination of the text’s original intent and
investigation of
ways to make that come through—and come through such that unavoidable
physical, monetary and cast-size
limitations are converted into assets. Accounting for more mature
acting styles
when a certain humanist narrative demands—the current South Pacific—is also valid, because in the end it’s
only
about better acting. (The Rodgers and Hammerstein organization
occasionally
leases out a film of the original London South Pacific from the 1950s as a template for
staging. It’s a
jaw-dropper. Even among the stars, the acting is phenomenally wooden
and/or
facile and/or musical theatre broad standard. Time has simply passed
that kind
of delivery by, the sophistication and pervasiveness of electronic
media would
render any attempt to replicate it seem like lesser competence.) But
when
you’re dusting off one of the few foolproof pieces in the canon for yet
one
more Broadway-style proscenium, ideally form should follow function and
content
dictate style; and Guys and Dolls pretty
much tells you
what it needs
to be. Always has, always will. And if you deliver that, the irony is,
you get
your signature anyway. Just for being right.
True
story: I know of an actor who auditioned for a major English language
production of Guys and Dolls some
years ago. He had played Nicely-Nicely numerous times regionally to
great
acclaim and with real character flair. He wasn’t one of the “usual
suspects” or
ubiquitous Nicely “specialists” who make a career of it; he just knew
where
Nicely lived, and when productions were casting, he was always the
clear best
choice. And sure enough, at the end of this audition, the watchers, most of them,
were
clearly aglow with admiration. The casting director led the actor out
of the
audition and said to him, “How does it feel to be on the A-list?” Days
went by and the actor heard nothing. A smart enough veteran not
to kid himself, he called his agent and said: "I don't have to be hit
in the head to know that [the star director] didn't want me. But I'd
sure love to know what happened." The agent checked on it. And
according to reports, what happened was this. Back in the
audition room, all eyes had turned to the star director expectantly.
And all ears were
flabbergasted to hear these words: “He’s too perfect for it. I wouldn’t
know
what to do with him.”
As
if leave him alone to do his thing and make you look like you
actually know what you're doing were a terrible idea…
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