Here is the second shoe to drop, another three shows on Broadway. One of them has already closed:
Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club — In 1966, when Hal Prince directed the original production of Cabaret, he famously held back on the seamy side and antisemitism of the imminent Third Reich, yet it still stood out for its edginess next to the other musicals of the time. Since then, subsequent Broadway revivals of the show have upped the sleaze level, like the 1998 Sam Mendes version featuring Alan Cumming and now, even more so with the current immersive take on the John Kander-Fred Ebb-Joe Masteroff show helmed by Britain’s Rebecca Frecknall.
The August Wilson Theatre has been completely gutted and transformed into a representation of the fictional Kit Kat Club, a circular stage in the round, surrounded by a few rows of tables where overpriced drinks are mercilessly hawked, presumably as they would have been in Weimar Germany. The transformation of the auditorium is so complete that it is impossible to tell where the Wilson’s proscenium was previously.
Much hailed and showered with awards in London two years ago, the production arrived on Broadway in April where it and its star Eddie Redmayne received uneven reviews, but theatergoers were attracted to the rightfully hailed material like moths to the proverbial flame. Redmayne has since been replaced by Adam Lambert (of the rock world’s Queen), making his Broadway debut quite ably in the seductive role of the club’s androgynous emcee. Surely he does not deserve the blame if costume designer Tom Scutt first dresses him in a leather skirt and tiny paper party hat. Lambert commits fully to his character’s sordid side and attacks his musical numbers with admirable abandon, particularly the haunting “I Don’t Care Much,” a paean to indifference cut out-of-town from the original production.
Somewhat less successful is Auli’I Ravalho (Moana and Moana 2) as staunchly apolitical saloon singer Sally Bowles, but her shortcomings can largely be attributed to Frecknall’s schizophrenic approach to the role. Ravalho’s simple delivery of the numbers outside of the club (“Perfectly Marvelous,” “Maybe This Time”) are fine, but her onstage presentational songs (“Mein Herr” and particularly the title tune) are strained and over-the-top.
Similarly, the book scenes between landlady Frau Schneider (Bebe Neuwirth) and fruit seller Herr Schultz (Steven Skybell), the doomed older couple, are the standout of the production. But that is a comment on the erratic nature of this revival when these two supporting characters steal the show.
Regardless of the inconsistencies, Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club — as this production has renamed itself — continues to be a compelling. timely theater experience. Chicago may have the longevity record in revival, but Cabaret is Kander and Ebb’s masterwork.
CABARET AT THE KIT KAT CLUB, August Wilson Theatre, 245 52nd St. $99-279. 888-985-9421.
Oh, Mary! — Exclamation points used to be all the rage for musicals of the 1960s, and now one has been earned for a most improbable Broadway transfer and hit, Oh, Mary! It exclaims the arrival of a sprite named Cole Escola, the writer and star of a supremely silly 80-minute anti-historical skit about Mary Todd Lincoln, Abe’s wife. It well earns that anti-historical label, for while there is evidence that our Mary had a weakness for alcohol, there is none that she yearned to be a cabaret singer, as Escola would have us believe.
Escola carves out the title role for himself, flouncing about the Lyceum Theatre stage in a huge hoop skirt — that cannot seem to stay down — and a Bo Peep ringlet wig. As you might imagine, his cross-dressing performance brings to mind the campy efforts of Charles Ludlum and Charles Busch, and only time will tell whether Escola has similar staying power.
Oh, Mary! was way too silly for my taste, but it should be reported in all fairness that that is a minority opinion, judging from the raucous, near-continuous laughter from the rest of the audience. Capitalized at a mere $4.5 million — chump change by today’s Broadway standards — Oh, Mary! arrived at the Lyceum from off-Broadway in late June for an announced 12-week run, but has been extended three times for a new closing date of June 28. Adding to the show’s Cinderella story is the fact that it has become the first production of the season to recoup its investment.
It helps that the design collective known as dots came up with a no-frills, unit set for Lincoln’s presidential office where a cast of five — Mary, Abe, her acting teacher, her chaperone and Abe’s aide — cavorts with abandon. Much of the play’s humor has a gay bent, with Lincoln deeply conflicted about his sexual orientation and distracted from the burdens of the ongoing Civil War by his aide, Kyle.
As has been mentioned elsewhere, Oh, Mary! is reminiscent of skits from The Carol Burnett Show, with a bit of I Love Lucy, for Mary yearns to break into show biz, auditioning for a part in Our American Cousin. And I leave it to you to discover Escola’s version of Lincoln’s assassination.
Escola dominates the action with his complete commitment to the Mary character, but Conrad Ricamora is also wildly amusing as her hubby. Director Sam Pinkleton keeps a light rein on the whole company, resulting in a madcap sprint to Escola’s — yes — cabaret finale. Whether or not Oh, Mary! goes beyond or below your humor level, there is no denying that it is a phenomenon worthy of attention.
OH, MARY!, Lyceum Theatre, 149 W. 45th St., through Saturday, June 28. $159-$395. 212-239-6200.
Tammy Faye – Having written the music for the all-time highest grossing Broadway musical (The Lion King) and a couple of musicals with healthy runs (Aida, Billy Elliot), Elton John has surely earned the right to have a total toe-stubber. That is what he has in Tammy Faye, a musical biography of the disgraced televangelist, which closed Dec. 8 after a mere three-week run at presumably the loss of its entire $25 million capitalization.
At least the money was very visible on the Palace Theatre stage. Credit video designer Finn Ross and lighting designer Neil Austin for the production’s high-tech bells-and-whistles, like the stage high bank of television monitors, closed-circuit TV and LED displays. If only the same care were taken with James Graham’s script, which never settles on a distinct point of view about Ms. Bakker, the title character.
Does it admire her or revile her? Is the show a satire or a melodrama? Yes to each option at some point during the show’s feels-longer-than-that two-and-a-half hours. And for a show named for its main character, it frequently loses sight of her, preferring to focus on her antagonist, the Rev. Jerry Falwell (a wasted Michael Cerveris), as well as occasional appearances by Ronald Reagan, Billy Graham and Pope John Paul II.
Despite the A-list writing and creative team, the show on view looks like an out-of-town tryout floundering in search of an identity, not one that already had an acclaimed London run, albeit in a theater a fraction of the Palace’s size.
Brought over from London is this production’s chief asset, Olivier Award winner Katie Brayben, who inherits the best of John’s score (with unexceptional lyrics by Jake Shears of Scissors Sisters). Tammy Faye really only comes alive when Brayben wails out on such numbers as “Empty Hands” and “Promised Me.” Two-time Tony winner Christian Borle gets equal billing with her, playing her broadcast mate Jim Bakker, but he looks uncomfortable much of the time, understandably so.
Director Rupert Goold, who heads the Almeida Theatre where Tammy Faye premiered, presumably endorsed the show’s inflation to Palace size, which is a large part of the problem, but the increase only calls attention to the flaws in the material.
TAMMY FAYE, Palace Theatre, 160 W. 47th St. Closed Dec. 8.