There’s
a new production of The Full Monty at the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn, NJ. Or is that the old
production? It may not be an
exact replication, but if memory serves, Mark Hoebee’s staging is, in look and feel, an
(appropriately) unabashed paraphrase of Jack O’Brien’s original, and as such it’s perfectly
fine; I
daresay anyone who never saw the Broadway mounting is pretty much
getting a de
facto second chance here. The cast is completely new of course, but
nonetheless
first rate, including many Broadway veterans, such as Wayne Wilcox, Jenn Colella, Michael Rupert and Michele Ragusa among others, plus Milton Craig
Nealy recreating the
role he played in the National
Tour. All of them at the tippy top of their game. And, oh yes, there’s Elaine Stritch in the role of the
street-wizened
(pun intended) rehearsal pianist doing…oh, whatever the hell she does.
It’s not
really the role, it’s Stritch riffing
on the role (if you can dig the difference), but it amazingly does no
harm and the audience loves it anyway.
My
feelings about the show itself haven’t changed a whit since the debut
2000
production (save for the fact that I no longer think of its
composer-lyricist David Yazbek
as merely a promising voice, but rather as a major player of top
quality), so I’m just going to cheat—it is Summer, after all—and
duplicate the text of my Broadway opening review below, for those
interested in a detailed analysis. For those who couldn’t give a damn
less and
simply want to know if this Full Monty is worth their travel-time and effort,
the quick-and-dirty answer is
yes, absolutely, bearing in mind that the material itself is hugely
entertaining yet far from perfect. But you’d be hard pressed to
encounter it
more fairly and professionally represented.
**********
There are actually two reviews to be
written
about the new musical based on the film “The Full Monty”: The first is the consumer advocate
statement—the second is an actual examination of the show’s elements.
The
consumer advocacy thing first: It’s a real audience-pleaser, and earns
the
right to be. It tells a fun story, you care about the characters, the
score
bounces along in a hip, painless fashion and the show doesn’t aspire to
much
except giving a good time, which it delivers. In that respect,
it’s the
kind of thing many would refer to as a “real, old-fashioned musical.”
One could
argue the point vigorously, I guess (I would maintain, in truth, that
there is
no such thing as a ROFM,
merely
classic or surviving musicals that variously honor traditional
principles), but
why split hairs? It’s an object lesson in how little it takes to get an
audience on your side if you have the talent to “simply” engage
their
interest in what happens next and deliver a well-crafted score in which
the
songs do what theatre songs are supposed to do: advance character and/or plot in key
moments in
well-formed, well “argued” music and lyrics that colorfully evoke
milieu and
the appropriate diction. That all sounds like Musical Theatre 101, of
course,
but it pays to remember how few musicals of recent years have scored
high marks
in that particular class. Say what you will about “The Full Monty”, it
scopes
its target and when it fires, aims true. Go and enjoy.
That’s
review number one. Here’s number two:
Though
“The Full Monty” is astonishingly effective, it is also
astonishingly less
than A-plus material. I don’t remotely mean to say it’s material without style or
wit or flair, nor that its
creative team aren’t men of great talent all…only that “The Full Monty”
rarely
rises above a certain level of expert competency. But again,
that’s why
it’s an object lesson in the power of a basic audience-friendly story
and craft
over the bells and whistles of spectacle and uninformed—meaning random or
lazy—experimentation.
Let’s
hit the story first. And before I go into synopsis, forgive my ranting
about
how unconscionable it is
that the
screenwriter of the original film—who didn’t do anything much,
just
devise the story being adapted and create the characters being
exploited,
that’s all—goes uncredited in the program. But I’ll credit him here:
his
name is Simon Beaufoy,
and I hope
at least he gets continuing financial participation in the
musical’s
success. (And for those into such things, an especially fine
novelization of
the script, by Wendy Holden,
is
available for $12.00 in an American trade paperback edition from
HarperPerennial.) Mr. Beaufoy is British, and set his tale in an
English town
where a steel plant has closed down, leaving its men out of work and
getting
more desperate.
In
his libretto for the musical, Terrence McNally has wisely (though, musicals being what
they
are, it may not have been his decision alone) Americanized the
setting—one
of the few such transpositions that actually improves things for
musical
purposes, because the starting-point crisis is so universal and
immediate that
it doesn’t require a British infusion for verisimilitude—the
change
actually hastens audience identification and sympathy.
So
now the tale takes place in Buffalo, where unemployed steelworker Jerry
Lukowski
(Patrick Wilson) is trying
his
best to survive on his union-provided unemployment insurance, is
unwilling
to subject himself to the humiliation of minimum wage work, and faces
the very
real prospect of losing contact with his teenage son Nathan (Thomas
Michael Fiss or Nicholas
Cutro) for non-payment of
child-support.
Jerry
is not alone in feeling emasculated: his best friend, a self-conscious
fat man
named Dave Bukatinsky (John Ellison Conlee) hasn’t been to bed with his wife Georgie (Annie
Golden) in months. And on one
night when she and Jerry’s ex,
Pam (Lisa Datz) go to a
Chippendale’s-style male-stripper joint, Jerry and Dave, on a macho
quest to
discover “what have they [the strippers] got that we haven’t got?” sneak into the club on ladies’
night and
overhear a few demoralizing things.
But
demoralized or no, it gives Jerry an idea. All these women are
screaming over
anonymous, perfectly formed hunks, most of whom (the tale implies) are
gay
anyway. And those guys just rake in the
dough. Jerry starts to think that the local ladies would pay lots to
see real
men— their own real men—do the same thing.
And
he embarks upon a quest to put together a group that will include five
other
somewhat like-minded individuals who want to get in on the action—and
get
out of financial trouble at the same time…
What
Mr. McNally does extremely well is define a wide range of characters
with
clean, economical brush-strokes that still evoke a certain
working-class depth;
and keep the dialogue entertaining and funny. He
also juggles several plot threads with extreme dexterity
while keeping the overall goal always in sight.
Where
Mr. McNally falters is in the second act, and the signs of Act Two
trouble are
evident early:
The
first act ends as the six fellows begin their first rehearsal—with
one of their ranks, the downsized executive who downsized them (Marcus Neville) trying, with little success, to get them to
master basic unison dance
moves. The attempt is a disaster—until Jerry starts talking in
basketball
terminology and all the guys, understanding that shorthand, suddenly execute beautifully coordinated moves. This segues into a rousing
dance
number in which they all imagine themselves to be Michael Jordan, and
concludes
with a real ray of hope.
The
second act begins a week later. The guys are terribly depressed;
rehearsals are
going miserably.
Now,
“The Full Monty” is such a light confection that it’s possible to let
this go
by and accept it without giving it too much importance.
But
if you’re of a mind to believe in inviolate story logic, you have
to
wonder why you’re suddenly being lied to. That first act closer was not
a dream
sequence—we saw that
the guys had the shit, as the jazzheads say. Why are we suddenly
being
told that a week later there has been no improvement—why is there not
even a reference to the real promise they were showing us before? Hell,
forget
about promise, they were entirely viable! Why go back on the previous
musical
number?
I’ll
tell you why.
Because
now “The Full Monty” is marking time.
Because
once those six guys get together, the
story is effectively over. There is no question but that they will get it in gear for their
big strip
act—so now what the
story
has to do is tread water, with
what seems either like padding
existing crises or fabricating
new ones that are of no
consequence, articifial and/or easily
resolved. (In truth, ironically, the musical follows the
superstructure of
the film fairly faithfully, but because its style is theatrically
streamlined
and slick rather than cinematically reportorial and literal, it
builds
differently. And because the musical chooses to create a conclusive
showstopper out of the
basketball
moment—a moment that in the film marks but the beginning of a gradual progress for the wannabe
strippers that
is never thereafter denied—it
telegraphs the success of its big finish.)
It’s
hard to know how much the audience cares about this; “The Full
Monty” has
made such thorough friends with us in Act One, that I think it is
forgiven all
the lapses of Act Two. Especially as that promised big finale—which
doesn’t disappoint—is eagerly anticipated.
Composer-lyricist
David Yazbeck, like Mr.
McNally,
also shows his strengths most effectivrely at the top. His opening
number, “Scrap”, sung by
the unemployed steelworkers at the union
hall about their plight, is a funny, smartass, streetwise winner that
advertises a rare synthesis of pop and theatre techniques; the freshest
element
of which is Yazbeck’s mastery of funk—and, even lyrically, an iconic
pop/jazz musician’s total irreverence. The rhymes aren’t always
perfect, but
the near-misses have an oddly forgivable silliness and slyness
that make
them seem more like mischievous variations than careless violations—and
it works ingeniously well for the tale’s blue collar universe.
Though the
score continues thereafter to deliver the goods in terms of being
amusing and
accessible, it rarely achieves the opening’s sustained high quality and
singularity. Most of the rest coasts on a novelty-song sensibility
(e.g. the
playing out of a wordplay or title gimmick)—except for the ballads,
which
are curiously mediocre. Still, Yazbeck’s is an auspicious debut for a
pop
writer (though his resume notes significant experience as a comedy
writer
too), and it’ll be fascinating to discover if he can pull the rabbit
out of the
hat in future shows or if this is a non-recurring phenomenon: a
strictly
chemical result of the right guy in the right room with the right
collaborators
and the right material.
Another
reason why “The Full Monty” is a triumph for all of us who believe in
storytelling first is the production itself, directed by Jack
O’Brien. He’s done nice
enough work with his company of
well-cast actors (as has choreographer Jerry Mitchell); but it’s not an especially attractive
production—in fact, there’s a bit of strip-hall cheesiness to it
overall
(the design is by John Arnone);
and there doesn’t seem to be anything in the way of a directoral master
plan,
other than telling the tale in as straightforward and efficient a
manner as
possible. Which he does, and it’s not to be minimized, it is in fact
the key to
his success here—but on the scale of production values from one to ten,
“The Full Monty” is a five. Maybe a six. A base-level minimum for
Broadway
caliber. But again, the audience cares not, because they’re involved.
The
cast is terrific, other notables being Kathleen Freeman (as a tough-old-broad rehrearsal pianist, the
one pro
in the room), André de Shields (as
the oldest member of the group, with a bad hip and unexpectedly spry
James
Brown moves) and Emily Skinner (as
the downsized executive’s adoring, acquisitive and
aggressively
sensual scat-singing wife).
I
think “The Full Monty” has also achieved something else that too few
musicals
manage these days; however lasting its Broadway success, it’s a show
that can
be done by stock-and-amateur groups on a reasonable budget, with no
dependence
upon special effects. This one will go right into the repertoire,
believe me,
and it’ll stay there probably for decades—or longer.
It’s
nobody’s masterpiece, God knows—but it’s a straight-to-the-heart
effort,
and precisely what the masses (and the critics) want, both on Broadway and
in the boonies. And while I
don’t for a minute
advocate that every musical can, or should, aspire to that—content must
always dictate style and intention and form and venue—it really is
the ultimate goal: a show
that
continues to entertain and pay off long after it closes.
And
you thought going “The Full Monty” just meant showing your penis…