Reviewed by David Spencer
It's not impossible to write a solid, successful musical
about prosaic (meaning "regular folks") characters, with no one
larger than life to drive the story, but it's bloody difficult, because
musicals are an elevated form, and characters who are not likewise elevated
tend to be a bad match for it. The compensations have to be derived from
innovation (Company), poetic presentation of the universe (i.e. Falsettos takes place more in the landscape
of its characters' minds—Marvin's in particular—than in apartments,
which is why its physicality is so fluid), or a universe that is itself
somewhat romantic (Oklahoma!). But to present prosaic people prosaically makes almost
no sense—and none at all in an adaptation, because there's no point in
musicalization unless you can improve upon the source material. (Here's
something to think on: Why is it that film adaptations are often so much less
good than the sources they're based on, and musicals are usually so much
better? There's probably no one-size-fits all answer, but I'll tell you this
much: improvement is endemic to the musical as a theatrical form.)
All this said, there's a parlor
trick that can be pulled off, if you have the sensibility and savvy for it. You
can take a story about ordinary people and really hone in on the perspective that
makes them view their ordinary struggles in life and death terms, so that they
seem noble and poetic. But it isn't easy to do, and it takes a very particular
touch.
One of the greatest theatrical
heartbreaks that few even know about is that the musical based on Paddy
Chayefsky's Marty
never got its
fair hearing. Not the authorized one by Charles Strouse (music), Lee Adams
(lyrics) and Rupert Holmes (book) that briefly emerged in Boston a few seasons
ago—but the one by Jeff Harris (perhaps best known as a songwriter, arranger and
principal musical director for Maureen McGovern). The heartbreak is that Jeff
couldn't get the rights: the Chayefsky estate was looking for stars—at
the time Jason Alexander was involved (the role would eventually be played by
John C. Reilly)—and in order to indemnify themselves against any possible
plagiarism lawsuit later, agreed to hear anything Jeff wanted to send them except
his score for Marty.
This is a score
that had been successfully BMI Showcased and presented at the Dramatists Guild
to acclaim from the likes of Sondheim, Harnick, Maltby, Charnin and Stone,
there was an industry buzz about this work—I participated in the presentations
and was there to see it flower—and the unwillingness of The Powers to
even give the stuff a hearing is to this day one of the most profoundly sad (if also,
alas, grimly understandable) lapses of judgment I know of in musical theatre
history; because unlike any other writers who'd attempted the material (Marty
was a favorite
of aspiring writers in the 70s and 80s), Jeff absolutely nailed it: the tone,
the diction, the musical delicacy—but also somehow the grandeur of a
plain, "ugly" man who finds a chance to be beautiful in the eyes of
another—and without even meaning to, he broke new ground. And like the
character Marty himself, did it without fanfare.
I tell you all this because I
wish you could have heard it.
Because if you'd heard it, you'd
also be hearing not only that A Catered Affair is missing the boat (should you attend),
but exactly why,
despite sincerity, a certain amount of authenticity and, at least in spirit,
faithfulness to its source material. Which happens to be yet another Paddy
Chayefsky teleplay, and a subsequent screen adaptation of it by Gore Vidal. You'd also be hearing that the
balance between verite and musical theatre is possible without sacrificing the
delicacy of the first or the boldness of the second.
Like Marty, the story of A Catered Affair is an uncomplicated yet deeply
human one. It takes place in New York City. Daughter Jane (Leslie Kritzer) is getting married. She and
fiancˇ Ralph (Matt Cavenaugh) have decided to have an immediate-family only ceremony
at the courthouse, for a number of logistical reasons, but it isn't entirely
irrelevant that, timetable expedience aside, her parents are on the low end of
the financial scale, living in a walk up tenement flat. Yet Jane's mother Aggie
(Faith Prince)
wants for her daughter the kind of wedding she never had, to make the most
important day in Jane's life special. And when a large check arrives from the
Army—compensation for the death of Jane's brother in battle—a check
that her father Tom (Tom Wopat) had been quietly, secretly counting on to buy his share
of a taxi, so he can finally be an independent driver—Aggie decides that
a real wedding is what it will pay for. Abetted by her brother, Winston (Harvey
Fierstein)
Jane's euphemistically called "bachelor uncle," who has what he
himself acknowledges as the inbred knack of "his people" to know about
such things, Aggie embarks upon making it happen. But despite all her efforts
to contain costs, it gradually starts to spiral out of control, making what
started as a beautiful idea threaten to rip the family apart.
The key to making such a small,
verite story sing involves two steps: The first is framing the evening in a musical theatre context;
somehow shaping the opening moments to articulate the theme (ideally in an
opening number), give the audience permission to understand and embrace a small
story writ large, with that prism of "what it's about beneath the story" through which to
view it. Needn't necessarily be a "concept" number, but it does have
to draw you into the world and the purpose (as, say, "Tradition" does
in Fiddler).
The second step is expressing the beating heart of the story in passionate song
that lets the actors "sing big" (where appropriate) but never
shatters the verisimilitude of intimacy. As I say, not easy. But the combo of
thematic focus and careful musical magnification (by which I mean not
exaggeration, but rather dramatic amplification) is what pulls off the
illusion.
And this, of course, is what A
Catered Affair lacks.
It isn't that the creative team
have failed to be faithful to tone and texture; in that, they've been quite
sensitive. Even allowing for some light alteration (i.e. Mr. Fierstein
explicitly re-rendering the uncle as indisputably homosexual, despite a modicum
of '50s-era discretion), this musical absolutely represents Chayefsky's (and
Gore Vidal's adapted) A Catered Affair with affection and respect.
The problem is—they
haven't done much of anything except represent it authentically. the
play may have had some particulars altered. been compressed here, streamlined
there, reshaped a bit ... but it essentially hasn't been reborn a musical; the
alchemical transformation that makes a musical seem necessary hasn't taken
place.
The authors'
approach—their very conscious approach, that I believe is also a very
conscious mistake—has been to maintain the verite so assiduously that the
musical never truly makes the case for its own existence, never convinces you
that anything the characters are singing truly needs to be sung. For all that
Harvey Fierstein's libretto is a loving makeover, it might as well be a TV
movie paraphrase, for Hallmark Hall of Fame, as a musical; it hasn't truly been
theatricalized, which is to say uprooted from its cinematic origins such that
its new life can only be lived optimally in theatrical terms. Likewise, the
music and lyrics by John Bucchino tend to make the show feel like a play with songs; and the songs—even the ones that have a
discernible, classic shape—whisper in and often whisper out (the
seemingly perverse lack of buttons [articulated musical endings that give
closure to songs and allow the audience to applaud] where they seem most earned
and wanted is flabbergasting)—sounding literate, suitable and
unremarkably attractive, making the score feel like it's mostly what Ed Kleban
liked to call "wretched-tative." (I should add, though, that the
avoidance of buttons seems to be a trademark of director John Doyle, who eradicated many from his avant-garde-ish revivals of
both Sweeney Todd and Company, with mixed results. Imposing this upon classic shows by way
of exploring new values within classic material seems valid enough, even if the
experiment doesn't always work; but taking buttons away from new material that earns them honestly makes the device seem
like a philosophical manifesto being applied arbitrarily. This quirk aside. Mr.
Doyle's direction is quite respectable, in terms of staging, work with actors,
design concepts, lighting, etc.; but insofar as providing a distinctive vision,
the direction, like every other element of the show, retreats into the quiet realities
as they exist in the source material, rather than redefining them in musical
theatre terms
Commensurately, the performances
are fine, as far as it goes, but they're likewise reined in and muted by the
style of the writing. All actors acquit themselves well (even Mr. Fierstein,
with that gravelly voice and narrow range, demonstrates a surprising musical
delicacy), but nobody really gets to land a song or own his/her role. Any
expert cast of New York professionals with similar credentials and suitability
to the roles would do just as well; by which I mean to say, lovely as Faith
Prince and Tom Wopat are, you don't need to see their signature marks—not
the way you needed to see Marty played by Ernest Borgnine, or the way you need
to see Patti Lupone play Mama Rose, or the way you just had to clock the
difference between two great Sweeneys, Len Cariou and George Hearn. There's a
temptation to say that the cast of A Catered Affair is wasted in it, but of course
that's not true, because they certainly anchor it and realize it as the authors
intend. What's wasted is the opportunity for people of that caliber to run with
it. Really run with it.
Subsequently, A Catered
Affair is neither
wonderful nor horrible, it just sort of pleasantly is. Which is why opinion on
it is so split: mildness in such a context tends to divide opinion.
Where's Jeff Harris when you
need him...?