My how times
have changed. When the original Broadway production of Meredith Willson's "The Music Man" opened in 1957, his nostalgic depiction of life
in a small Iowa town circa 1912 resonated with audiences wearied by nearly two
decades of wars both hot and cold, and the vague, but ever present shadow of
nuclear annihilation. So it's somewhat ironic that Willson's paean to his Midwestern
roots is now viewed through a double-glazed filter, as today, we tend to look
back on the '50's with a similar sense of sentimental detachment, yearning
perhaps like that audience before for an idyllic state of being that for the
most part never existed. Village Theatre Artistic Director Steve Tomkins seems to understand this point, and while this production plays up
the schmaltz factor, pushing
it nearly to its most absurd heights, it is made increasingly clear through the
course of the show that Willson's material has become woefully out of sync with
our modern, cynical sensibilities, in the end coming across much like a
prehistoric insect trapped in amber, frozen forever in a pristine state of
suspended animation.
Producing a
show like "The Music Man" inevitably leaves one trapped by a
lose-lose proposition: the piece is so indelibly etched into the minds of
theatregoers that subjecting its rather simplistic themes and stereotyped
characters to any sort of contemporary deconstruction borders on the sacrilegious.
Yet, it is precisely because of its naÔve sentimentality, dated depiction of
class and gender roles, and bromidic tributes to the virtues of what today
might be called "Red State Values" that "The Music Man"
seems to cry out for just this sort of critical re-engagement. Unfortunately,
the tendency is to treat American Musical Theatre with the same sort of
reverence once reserved for the works of Shakespeare, resulting in
museum-quality recreations, which while technically polished and precisely
executed, are completely devoid of any relevance to a modern audience.
Which is
precisely what we get here. Tomkins and his production team (Scenic Designer Bill
Forrester, Lighting Designer Greg
Sullivan, Costumer Melanie
Burgess, and Sound Designer Don
Littrell) provide us with a River
City, Iowa as near to a picture-perfect rendition of early 20th Century small
town Americana as one could expect outside Disneyland, replete with quaint
storefronts, gazeboes, frilly frocks, straw boaters and ice cream suits, all
lit in bright pastel colors that eliminate any need for donning rose-colored
glasses. Sentiment is the order of the day in this snow globe of a world where
the biggest event in the lives of the citizens is the weekly arrival of the
Wells Fargo wagon, and the direst threat to civic order is the instillation of
a billiard table. Pretty tame stuff by any stretch, yet certainly in keeping
with Willson's own glossy, overly romanticized recollections of his childhood
home of Mason City, Iowa.
And herein lies
the show's biggest problem: with the arrival of the charismatic scoundrel
Harold Hill (Eric Englund),
the quiet, ordered lives of the citizens of River City are upset, not by the
threat of economic hardship, nor war, nor natural catastrophe, nor by any other
event of consequence, but rather by the corrupting influence of a single pool
table on their youth. In an age where children are regularly confronted with
the harsh realities of violence, drug abuse, sexual predation, and a myriad of
other social, political and economic problems, the audience is left bereft of
any way to genuinely identify with the situation of these characters. Simply put, their problems are so
infinitesimally inconsequential that it becomes easy to laugh at their
child-like simplicity, rather than become emotionally engaged with their
plight. "Our Town" this isn't, although both plays share a similar
affinity for sentiment, but clearly Willson lacks Thornton Wilder's genius for
extracting themes of universal import from the mundane lives of his characters,
something that ensures the latter's work remains dramatically vibrant, while
ìThe Music Manî, having nothing to say to us aside from a few obvious
blandishments borders on irrelevance.
With the
stakes set so low, the cast is stuck with the challenge of turning this
molehill into some sort of a mountain, which they do with varying degrees of
success. The central romance between Hill and River City's resident librarian,
Marian Paroo (Beth DeVries)
encapsulates everything that works, and everything that doesn't about this
production. Both are adept singers, and generally strong actors. But Englund,
while certainly possessing charm in spades, also seems somewhat stiff and
mechanical both in his scheming to bilk the townfolk of their hard-earned cash,
as well as in his wooing. The sparkling grin comes easily enough when
warranted, but there's a deadness in his eyes that belies his charm, like the
expression of a rattlesnake before it strikes. DeVries for her part plays
Marian with a strong backbone; sheís an intelligent, cultured, independent
woman who, while certainly not out of place in today's world, feels somewhat
anachronistic in the world of 1912. As a result, not only is it difficult to
accept that she could ever be duped by a charlatan of Hill's ilk, but the idea
of her falling in love with him seems downright ludicrous. Still, if you've
bought into the conceit thus far, the two make an attractive pairing, and both
give otherwise solid renditions of their solo and duet numbers, Englund
starting off with the rousing patter song "Trouble", and with DeVries
showing good form on "Goodnight My Someone". Oddly, they don't get a
duet until late in the play with the Eleven O'Clock number, "Till There
Was You", which while a pleasant enough rendition, clearly shows DeVries
with the technical advantage.
For the most
part, the rest of the cast valiantly, tries to overcome Willson's penchant for
wallowing in rampant stereotype and cloying affectation. John X. Devany, as Mayor Shinn is never given much to do but
bluster about in impotent frustration, while Laura Kenny, as his overbearing wife Eulalie is reduced to
executing a series of obvious, and somewhat demeaning physical gags. The
foursome of local society women (Ellen McLain, Kathleen Stoll, Bobbi Kotula, and Julie Thornton) have between them about a century's worth of
comic expertise, but with little more to do than the brief feature piece
"Pickalittle", and its even briefer Act II reprise, most of their
considerable talent never gets a chance to shine. Their male counterparts (Hugh
Hastings, Aaron Shanks, Brian Higham, and Buddy Mahoney) fare far better with their melodious barbershop
harmonies on "Goodnight Ladies", "Sincere" and "Lida
Rose". Greg Michael Allen,
another Village stalwart also gives a good showing in the role of Marcellus,
especially on the Act II ensemble number "Shipoopie", and in
addition, Tomkins has assembled a young, vibrant chorus, all of whom execute
with aplomb in the aforementioned number, and particularly so in the dance
break for "Marian The Librarian".
In reality,
this production of "The Music Man" will probably not disappoint the
average theatergoer; the technical elements are stylish and well executed, and
the performances while not particularly inspired, are nevertheless equally
polished. One wishes, however, that the piece itself had something a little
more important to say than "wasn't life grand, way back then?" or
that Tomkins and his company were compelled to balance its saccharine
sentimentality with more substantial food for thought.