This first review was written while All About Me was still open. Despite the time-lag of this edition of Aisle Say relative to some of a the freatured reviews, there was no way to be more timely. ABM bounced very quicklyÉ
IÕm
sometimes not sure what IÕm doing as a drama critic sent to review an evening
such as All About Me,
which is essentially a Vegas act,
pairing New York song stylist Michael Feinstein and Australian comic Barry Humphries in the drag role by which he is more famously
known, Dame Edna, who is
famous simply for being famous. Oh, it has a script by Christopher Durang and direction by Casey (The Drowsy Chaperone) Nicholaw, but itÕs still a club trifle all the way, with the same goofy
banter, flimsy excuse for song and powerhouse onstage band (musical direction
by the uncompromising maestro Rob Bowman). Feinstein and Dame Edna are very much what they are, and if you
think an evening of them together is amusing, youÕll be amused. If you donÕt,
you wonÕt. If you think itÕs a daring experiment that might pay unexpected
dividends, youÕre na•ve. All About Me depends so much upon oneÕs affection and affinity for
well-established entertainers that any judgment is moot. IÕll say itÕs rendered
with about as much polish as might attend this kind of endeavor, the audience
seemed to dig it, and I was not wholly indifferent to it. Otherwise, whether or
not you attend truly has to beÉall about youÉ
*************
I
suppose a critic might have a somewhat similar reaction to an offering such as
Come Fly Away, Twyla Tharp's second attempt to recreate the lightning strike
she had with Movin' Out, her "dansical" based on the Billy Joel song
catalog. And while placing Frank Sinatra songs in the context of a nightclub
seems a reasonable enough homage to the obviousÑit makes far more sense than
her last, the silly and soporific The Times They Are A-Changin', which placed Bob Dylan songs within a traveling circusÑthe
frisson of inspiration that makes such an event be compelling and seem
necessary is only mildly present.
The mild newsÑFor
one thing, Sinatra was an interpreter of other people's songs, not himself a
songwriter, so any thematic underpinning drawn from the catalog has to be
superimposed. (An overall interpretation on top of individual interpretations,
if you will.) For another: let's face it, an evening of Sinatra songs is a
pretty lame idea without Sinatra himself to sing them. But ah, technology! It's
a new world, Golde. The show's sound designers have dug into the source
recordings and stripped out the vocals, while the show's musical staff have
researched, recreated and/or adapted the original big band and orchestral
arrangements for the live onstage musicians. Thus, recorded Sinatra can sing to
an admittedly smokinÕ live bandÉor more accurately, a live band can play to
recorded Sinatra, since it's the pulse and flow of the original vocals that
have to be followed. So you gotta consider, as a potential patron, how
thrilling you'll find it to pay top dollar partially to hear SOME of Sinatra's
signature tracks recreated once, when for likely less money, you can forever
own the entire digitally remastered collection on CDs, MP3s and message filled
chemicals injected into your bloodstream to take root in the microscopic audio
center built by nanobots just behind your inner ears (wait, it's coming). The good news: The songs are so well-crafted and well-sung (by Sinatra andÑlive tooÑby Hilary Gardner or Rosena M. Hill,
depending on your performance, occasionally in cleverly arranged duet
with a source Sinatra track) that things don't get dull. It's all fun
to listen to.
The better newsÑNone
of which is to say that the dancing doesn't have its charms as well, rooted though they
may be in familiar character tropes: the young, innocent couple (Laura Mead, Charlie Neshbya-Hodges), the "player" couple (Matthew Stockwell Dibble, Holley Farmer), the
"wildcat Negress" (Karine Plantadit)Ñthink Eartha Kitt, but tallerÑthe club
owner (Keith Roberts)Ñall
of whom dance out their (lightly overlapping) stories and
pathologies, a choreographed collage of light romantic comedy. Nor is
there any faulting of Ms. Twarp's gifts for composition, imagery
and impressive routining: no question you're in the hands of a
master. And indeed, if
the skill of such a thing sounds like your idea of a fine theatrical night out,
you're likely to have one. But if it all sounds to you like Dancin' to the
Recyclies, it's unlikely you'll
find enough there for a crazy coo-coo timeÉ
Return to Home Page
Go to David Spencer's profile