Part III:
1776
Book by Peter Stone
Music, Lyrics and Conception by Sherman Edwards
Directed by Jeffrey L. Page and Diane Paulus
A Production of the Roundabout Theatre Company
American Airlines Theatre
Reviewed by David Spencer
Presenting 1776 with an all-female cast is not a new idea. It’s not even, you should pardon the pun, a revolutionary idea. My own esteemed significant other, as a budding musician, even musical directed an all-girl cast at the summer camp she attended, not long after the 1969 musical started licensing stock, amateur and regional productions, which would have been around 1972-3. And in such venues it has been performed thus numerous times. And, from all reports and reviews I’ve ever come across, with great affection.
I wrote at great length about 1776 twenty years ago, upon its first revival by the Roundabout Theatre; you can read that piece here. Give it a read, if only the stuff about the show’s construction. It’ll give what follows the most comprehensive context. (It’s a very old archival page, so there’s no return link, so when you’re done, just back-arrow here, or return using your browser’s history.)
https://www.aislesay.com/NY-1776.html
Thanks for doing that.
Now that you’re fully oriented…
Librettist Peter Stone was still around to oversee that revival. He even interpolated a few of the new lines he had written for the screenplay. None of which have been performed onstage since, none of them truly consequential enough for the expense of absorbing into the licensable script; but evidence of how much he cared about the show; for all his accomplishments as screenwriter for film and TV, as theatre librettist, he always thought of 1776 as the jewel in his crown. I got to know a good deal about the revival from the inside, was even invited to its cast album recording session, and there was an overriding gestalt that infused everything.
The people in it, the people working on it, loved it as much as Stone did.
They were, in fact, protective of it.
New, reduced orchestrations, yes. A few new arrangements, yes.
But everything the music department did was very carefully weighed. Musical director Paul Gemignani, famous for his long association with Stephen Sondheim, considered himself the guardian at the gate. He was all about making it more of what it naturally was. And the original arranger and musical director, Peter Howard, was there cheering them on.
And it was all, like Stone’s film interpolations, bolt-tightening. Teeny-tiny flourishes.
Because the piece didn’t need any help.
When you go through the roster of classical musical theatre works, you find that the majority of them have a central spine and spirit that fights any new production contradicting it. That’s because, unlike a play, the collaborative process of a musical is too complex, involves the merging of too many heads finding their way to a common sensibility, and the end result has too many moving parts that have to work just so. Some will weather new treatments, certainly, but only those that honor what’s at the core.
And more than any other musical in the canon, 1776 represents the apotheosis of this, because its construction is so foursquare; because its text is so foursquare. It doesn’t give you stylization to interpret. It doesn’t give you ambiguity to guess at. If one makes the distinction between film as a reportorial medium and theatre as a poetic one, 1776 is arguably the most reportorial and least poetic musical in the canon. But it’s nonetheless strong enough to bear up under—or rather, to support—the poetic license of an all-female cast. Even a diverse all-female cast.
So long as it’s done from the inside out. From the soul of the piece.
Which so unequivocally defines its territory that it protects any company meeting it on its own terms.
The characters are written with such strength that a well-cast ensemble will put them over handily. The fun of the transformation will engage the imagination of the audience in being complicit with the illusion. And the effectiveness of the illusion—of watching a female ensemble playing pants roles not as panto, but for real stakes—will by itself do all socio-political messaging intended about the musical’s baked in male-centricity.
A friend of mine who was in the previous revival recently wrote a long, articulate Facebook post; in it, he cited the degree to which 1776, as written, demonstrates an astonishing capacity to trust the audience to understand what’s going on, to keep track of it all, to remember a multiplicity of plot points, and seeds planted, and developing thread.
But in order for that to function, something else just as vital has to be true of the production team.
They have to trust the material.
In the current revival, co-directed by Diane Paulus and choreographer Jeffrey L. Page…whatever their actual feelings, the net result leads one to think they’re disdainful of it.
I’ve seen thousands of live productions, all over the English speaking world, a few in Quebecois, and more international musical theatre videos—broadcast videos, archival videos, bootleg videos—than most…and in among all this, many misguided musical revivals. So please understand how sincere I am when I say this:
I have never
ever
ever
ever
seen a revival that was so distrustful of the material as this new rendering of 1776. So distrustful that it crosses the line from tone-deaf to punitive. And I’ve seen some doozies.
(And lest any of this seem like defensive anger or resentment toward a favorite musical mistreated…honestly, no. I’m too old, I’ve seen too much, I wasn’t that shocked or caught unawares. The state of the world gives me enough to get pissed off at. But the principle nonetheless matters. And that’s what fuels my energy in writing these words.)
To chapter-and-verse all the abuses—and it truly is abusive—would be nothing but a litany; so I’ll just single out elements that speak to the entire philosophy.
Despite stage directions particularizing how the set and the positioning/costuming of members of the Congress help define the intricacies of the coming drama via visual orientation, the new production begins—after a weirdly segmented presentation of John Adams’ opening monologue—with the cast solemnly taking their seated places behind two long tables. Facing us.
And what does this accomplish?
It says, look out; we’re all women, and this company is not only inclusive, it’s diverse.
Not only does this obscure the carefully crafted clarity plan of the script (which includes specifically delineating an equally diverse assortment of characters with conflicting agendas)…it makes sure we understand something that would have been perfectly obvious if they hadn’t done anything.
And this sets the aforementioned philosophy for everything that follows.
The philosophy being that nothing will happen without being literalized, spelled out and/or commented upon. And the comments will be tilted toward…well, you’ll see…
Let’s jump ahead to the first exchange between Adams (Crystal Lucas-Perry upon opening, since replaced by Krystolyn Lloyd) and his wife Abigail (Allyson Kaye Daniel) introducing the convention of their dramatized letters to each other. Adams asks why Abigail has not yet organized the ladies of their community to make saltpeter for gunpowder. She replies that, first, Adams must see to it that she and the ladies have a supply that they need and can no longer acquire locally due to wartime shortages: pins for sewing and mending. She introduces the subject in a lyric thus:
“There’s one thing ev’ry woman’s missed in Massachusetts Bay…” Whereupon Adams is supposed to make a hmph noise, and she responds, “Don’t smirk at me, you egotist, pay heed to what I say…” She’s very much an equal partner in the marriage and she’s unafraid to chide him for his stubbornness.
But here’s what happens in the current revival. Instead of going hmph, Adams makes a little thrusty gesture with his hips. As if to say, “Yeah, you broads are all missing a good rooting.”
Not only does that violate the Boston propriety that is so much a part of Adams’ character (and so much a part of the humor had at his expense throughout the show), it introduces a level of crudity that even violates his relationship with and his regard for Abigail—and suggests that such is a normal and tolerated part of their vocabulary.
But of course you can hear the argument for why this was done. Because later on in the show, we find out that Adams is the one who sent for Jefferson’s wife because Jefferson’s loneliness (and “burning”) were preventing him from concentrating on writing the Declaration. It’s like Adams sending for a concubine, why wouldn’t he wiggle his hips? (Jefferson played by Elizabeth A. Davis, Martha by Eryn Lecroy.)
Well, first of all, he didn’t send for a concubine. He reunited a young married couple with a lusty relationship. But more than that—in the play, arranging that “compassionate visit” is the last thing in the world that anyone would have expected Adams to do because he is so stuck-up. The pleasure the audience takes in this is surprise in learning that Adams is even capable of such sensitivity; and the scene leading up to her entrance gives no clue that would ever make any such effort.
But tipping the jokes and spoiling the story points are part and parcel of the new approach: Late in the debates, Jefferson steps in to confront South Carolina delegate Edward Rutledge, a proponent of slavery (played by the now-infamous Sara Porkalob). Jefferson has condemned slavery his draft of the Declaration and argues that it is a practice which is an offense against God and man. To which Rutledge replies, “Then see to your own wounds, Mr. Jefferson. For you are a practitioner, are you not?” Struck a harsh blow, Jefferson can only murmur that he has resolved to free his own slaves.
Should be a devastating moment.
Because, playing by the rules of the script, we never knew this. (The whole point, remember, is creating suspense around an event whose outcome we know well. Even those history-minded audience members aware that Jefferson was a slave-owner have only thus far seen him as a proponent of freedom; they don’t suspect that the authors have any intention of exposing it this late in the show. The roundhouse punch is that he has kept it to himself and that anyone else who knows about it can weaponize it.)
But all through this new production, before Jefferson makes his entrance into any scene, we see a little front-of-curtain pantomime: his butler-slave—an interpolated character—helping Jefferson into his garments. What message here? Look, see? The man is a hypocrite. He has a slave.
And those are but the small offenses.
—There’s the staging of “Momma, Look Sharp”, replete with the sound of a gun and the aggrieved mother showing up to wail.
—There’s the staging of “Molasses to Rum” where the actual, physical auction, replete with rum barrels and slaves is brought onstage. The power of suggestion, of letting an actor fill your mind and indeed the playing, via the power of the poetic medium, with imagery by simply telling you something in an evocative way, is nowhere present. (The new staging even seems to be Rutledge’s celebration of slavery. Lost in all the surreal spectacle is the irony of Rutledge rubbing Adams’ face in the fact that Northern goods and services, that slaves ships crewed by Northerners, that Northern buyers are just as much a part of perpetuating the mechanism as the South.)
The superfluous and relentless illustration, the selective weird omissions of text, are compounded by the wholesale re-arranging, re-orchestrating and musical re-treatment to the point of re-composition of the score (orchestrator John Clancy, Musical Director Ryan Cantwell, Vocal design AnneMarie Milazzo, Associate MD Alyssa Kay Thompson)—that, among other wildly anachronistic effects, renders Adams’ “Is Anybody There?” into an essay in soul singing. No doubt the intention is to once again illustrate: to make us hear the sound of future cultural-political-racial liberation.
But the effect is not that of Adams channeling the voice of generations hence…it’s that of an actress encouraged by the directors to sacrifice verisimilitude on the altar of anachronism. I mean, for heaven’s sake: If you’ve got an African-American actress playing John Adams singing “Is Anybody There?”—you already win. The point is made, the work is done, nobody can possibly be immune to the implications. Adding anything else is projective clutter.
And that’s the epitome of Theme-splaining.
I suppose I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge “He Plays the Violin”—delivered in a deliberately disturbing way. I’m not sure I do understand the illustration here, because the directors are have attempted to fit it onto a peg that won’t hold it. But I’ll try.
The song is sung beautifully by Eryn Lecroy, but played as if she’s abstracted from her own life, trapped by her function as sex toy and having adopted a kind of Stockholm Syndrome rationalization to get through it. With odd, imposed tempo variations to enhance the surreality.
In its original form, the song is a mash-up of classical minuet and jazz waltz (cleverly arranged by Peter Howard) that just grazes the edge of anachronism without ever falling into it. And in more recent years, its subject and dramaturgical purpose have come under fire as sexist. Understandably to some degree: There’s Martha Jefferson suggestively celebrating her love life, while pertly charming a teasingly appreciative Franklin (as harmless a dirty old man as they come) and straitlaced Adams into the bargain—a song which breaks out into an exuberant instrumental and paradoxically innocent dance as the waltz begins to sweep. (Earning one of the biggest laughs in the show: Franklin’s, “John! You can dance!” A laugh that usually covers Adams’ response: “We still do a few things in Boston, Franklin.”) And in not having much more function in the show than provide Charm Song respite from more serious matters—the accusation goes—it renders Martha nothing more than the resolution of a sex-comedy plot point.
But why in the world should she or the song be required or expected to be or do anything else?
Supporting musical theatre characters with limited time to make impact always perform reductive functions. That’s among the principal reasons why each cameo member of the Congress is as memorable as any of the leads: each is distilled to an essential function.
And not only isn’t Martha characterized in the writing as a sex object…but played as scripted, Franklin and Adams are entirely deferential to her; respectful and—more than that—in thrall.
“He Plays the Violin,” being a song about Martha’s feelings toward her husband is far less brazen a song than, say Cole Porter’s “Always True to You in My Fashion” (in which the singer basically says to her boyfriend, I’ll spend time with anyone who can keep me in the lap of luxury, but I’ll always return to poor you, kid)—and any number of other songs in the literature, with lyrics by both men and women.
So why has “He Plays the Violin” taken more flak than others?
My guess: ironically because of 1776’s nobler aspirations. It was composer-lyricist Sherman Edwards’ intent that the score leaven the show’s seriousness by mostly (if not entirely) functioning as a vaudeville—a precarious balance which alchemically works like crazy—but alongside that, the show nonetheless aspires to be a history lesson and meaningful drama.
And isolating Martha’s song from that alchemy thus brings up the issue of what I’ll call Prior Era Context.
Because nothing dates itself faster than the socialization zeitgeist of previous eras as reflected in popular culture. I distinguish this from social attitudes per se, because there can be any number of contradictory (and ultimately inexcusable) ones in a given era. Rather, I refer to where a given work might be compassionately and tolerantly placed within a time-line and against what society was then working through.
I knew Peter Stone—he was a dyed-in-the-wool, adamant liberal, an outspoken advocate of civil rights, women’s rights and sexual equality, whose most well-known and prolifically-published head-shot showed him wearing a “Peace” button on his lapel. His and Sherman Edwards’ well-documented, primary purpose in 1776 was to dramatize that the Founding Founders were as fractious, flawed and above all, human as anybody; and to keep that always constant and surprising; Jefferson and his wife having a sex drive being a part of that.
Common candor in historical dramas now. But in a play—a musical—about the founding fathers in 1969?
Ice-breaking. Envelope-pushing. New territory.
And in the era in which the show was produced, that’s the way it was understood. (Not to mention that the song launched Betty Buckley’s career.)
Characterizing it in any other context is a projection of later era context. And a distortion.
The further back you go in examining popular culture—in any medium, and I’ve had reason, the past two years to research this phenomenon in some depth for a book about an aspect of popular culture; not to mention my simply bearing witness to this phenomenon for decades (born in 1954)—the more you have to consider each piece in its native environment; to consider where society was in relation to where it had been and where it would be going. And the further back you go, the more contradictory various signature works, productions and/or broadcast episodes can seem.
i.e. How can the same musical—1776 or any one of numerous other classics—seem, by those who haven’t yet come to processing such consideration—so assiduously sensitive and groundbreaking in one regard…and simultaneously so oblivious in another?
Because social and cultural awareness, even among the pioneers who broke through barriers and redefined the parameters, has never been a process of instant, comprehensive epiphany.
It has always moved forward in steps and phases, small and large, never in a straight line, never without occasional regression, nor with all practitioners paralleling each other’s progress. Now and then moving backwards and forwards at the same time.
To ignore that, to be resentful of it, to refuse to regard each piece on its own terms and acknowledge the times around it, that fed into it, is quite literally tantamount to proselytizing creationism over evolution.
The solution? And I’m not just talking about 1776. I mean any classic stage work.
Don’t treat the piece as if it’s guilty of some infraction. Let it speak for itself. From its heart. Interpret based on that. Editorializing only exacerbates the flaws, minimizes the inherent strengths and adds condescension to the experience.
And give the audience credit for getting it; they never need you to keep saying: Get it? Get it? Get it?
1776 is already about activism.
And I’ll conclude by noting what may be the biggest irony of all.
A truly notable place where the creative team of the current revival stays mostly, surprisingly hands OFF…is its treatment of John Dickinson. With the role played perfectly by Carolee Carmello (who, not incidentally, replaced as Abigail Adams in the previous revival), and the song, “Cool, Cool, Considerate Men” only minimally meddled with, it provides a glimpse of the lost potential.
The irony, of course, being that Dickinson is the show’s lead Conservative. The one most adamant about keeping things exactly as they are. The one who resists progress beyond any negotiation or compromise. The most conspicuous target for revisionist editorializing. And yet—
Him they left alone.
As if they couldn’t think of a way to “expose” him further.
Subsequently, his is the only voice of dramatic authenticity.
In the Theme-Splaining frenzy that is this revival of 1776, the only character presented truthfully is the one who would block the truth.
That’s the thing about trying to prove you’re smarter than a smart piece whose smart authors have already done the smart heavy lifting and smartly solved the problems.
The piece may not be able to save itself from your betrayal after its authors are too dead to stop you.
But it will find a way to expose the betrayal.
Every time.
In a half-century of reviewing, I’ve never known it to fail.
Link to Part 1: Death of a Salesman
Link to Part 2: A Raisin in the Sun