I don’t know if I dare classify School of Rock as the best musical to debut in NY in recent memory; especially in the wake of subject-matter-and-style mold-breakers like Hamilton and Fun Home; but can I say it’s my favorite of recent memory?
This
admission boggles my freaking mind for a number of reasons. Two above all:
(1)
While I have nothing particularly against Andrew
Lloyd Webber, and have enjoyed much of his work a great deal, this
is the first of his shows that doesn’t go in my personal “Guilty Pleasure” box.
It’s a Proud-to-Declare-It pleasure. It’s just a good old, straight-ahead
musical comedy.
(2)
It’s a good old, straight-ahead musical comedy. All right, I’m half-kidding; I
don’t really mean that alone sets me
aback, but rather that it’s built upon completely familiar plot-and-character tropes; there’s not much
story surprise, it’s all about
execution. But what kickass execution.
Dewey
(Alex Brightman) is a disenfranchised
rocker, kicked out of the very band he formed, sponging rent-free off the
goodwill of his best friend Ned (Spencer Moses) in the guest room of the house Ned shares with
increasingly impatient girlfriend Patty (Mamie Parris). At risk of being bounced from his digs, he inadvertently
intercepts a substitute teacher job offer phone call for Ned; and at the
prospect of nearly $1000-per week paycheck, shows up at Horace Green, a private
school for very rich kids, impersonating Ned and just getting past the strict
scrutiny of Rosalie the principal (Sierra Boggess). Intending just to go ahead slacking once he’s in
the classroom, he gradually catches on that the young grade school kids in his
charge are very musical, and without quite intending to, finds himself
galvanized to teach them the history and fundamentals of rock; the better that
they might form their own group and compete in a big-deal Battle of the Bands
concert.
The
original screenplay is by Mike White,
and the efficient and funny libretto adaptation is by Julian (Downton Abbey[!!!]) Fellowes, but for tone and trajectory, it might as well have
been written by Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandell (or if we go even more
oldschool, by Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond). We’ve seen variations on this
formula many times.
But
when it’s made to work, as in this musical, does it ever. Webber has written
what may be his most straightforward, unpretentious, full-hearted score; and at
a guess I’d say that having Glenn Slater as
perhaps the first lyricist whose imprimatur is bold, craftsmanlike and witty
enough to unavoidably, alchemically change the tenor of Webber’s game,
delivering his best work to boot, had a lot to do with that.
I
have a few little qualms about missed opportunities for Ned and Patty to sing
by way of defining themselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in workshopping the
show, the creative team found that the story didn’t need them to sing, but it would make me wonder if the
optimal moments for them to sing had been explored. Wasn’t there, can’t know,
just a speculation. Does it matter? Well, if you’ve read this far, obviously
not.
The
direction (Laurence Connor) is
well-paced and slick, the choreography (JoAnn M. Hunter) is character-driven and infectious and the cast,
including the kids, who do in fact play their own instruments, is spectacular.
In
re the cast: I had the interesting experience of seeing the show twice, with
two different guys in the lead. The first time, I was unaware I was watching a
standby until the announce-the-names curtain call, and I heard Sierra Boggess
call out “Jonathan Wagner!” Of course,
critics attending that performance were invited back to see Alex
Brightman, and I returned not only to see
the toplined guy, but out of curiosity to see if he could possibly have been
better—because Wagner had been outstanding.
And
he wasn’t. They’re about equal. And the role of Dewey is such that once you’re
in the zone, there’s not much to do but go with its natural flow, which
dictates a very specific energy and sense of timing. I found the difference
between them small but fascinating. Brightman is just a little more insane; at
moments of musical punctuation or ”reaction-shottage,” there’s a pop-widening
of the eyes showing you that somewhere behind the whites there’s been an
super-nova. While Wagner’s insanity isn’t quite so nuclear, his compensation is that he’s actually a little funnier.
Where Brightman will favor a certain fleetness through a scene, content to
deliver the big kill, Wagner never wastes even a passing funny line; he’ll get
his laugh and sacrifice nothing in the way of speed. No matter which one of
these guys you see, you’ll be in great hands for the evening.
And
it’s a terrific, family-friendly evening.
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