San Diego Magazine / July 1997 / Summer Lights

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Summer Lights

Summer theater ain’t what it used to be—and that’s good. In bygone days, it—like beach reading—was supposed to be light and unprovocative, something to while away leisure hours. No more, especially in an area like ours, with its abundance of sunny days and warm nights.

Case in point: Rent. The Pulitzer- and Tony-winning rock musical version of the opera La Bohème—not by any standards "light"—makes its long-anticipated West Coast bow July 13 at the La Jolla Playhouse, home base of its director, Michael Greif. For theatergoers, it’s the Super Bowl—only with more play-dates, more excitement and much better music.

Not much needs to be said. The hype, mostly deserved, has been enormous, and the critical and audience reception has been near-unanimous approval. So if you don’t already have tickets, get to it. Even with the run extended until September 14, there aren’t many seats available.

On the other hand, one traditional representative of summer theater is making a welcome return. Starlight never totally went away, but its Balboa Park bowl has been too often dark and empty as the organization gasped on fiscal life-support. Its new season, a year late in celebrating Starlight’s 50th anniversary, comprises some safe selections that could help nurse the company back to health. Slated are The Sound of Music (July 9-20), The Music Man (July 30–August 10) and Singin’ in the Rain (August 20-31). So get traditional: Take a picnic, check out the renovated Starlight Bowl, and organize a pool on how many times the performance will pause for jet noise.

As promised last month, here’s more about my spring London theater week. I caught six productions, just about the limit considering I also wanted to check out the new Globe (my June column), visit the London Theatre Museum (many interesting exhibits and some good tour-guide anecdotes, but "theater museum" just may be an oxymoron) and make the pilgrimage to Shakespeare’s birthplace in Stratford (increasingly touristy but still charming).

Martin Guerre

Prince Edward Theatre

This latest musical by the Les Miz–Miss Saigon team has inspired some of the most diverse reactions in years. Knocking it seems almost fashionable among theater insiders, yet it continues to sell out and in February won the Olivier (England’s Tony) as best new musical.

Part of the reason for such division is that since the show’s opening in July ’96, magic-touch producer Cameron Mackintosh and director Declan Donellan have put it through massive changes in script and personnel, hoping to grow another money tree for Mackintosh’s global orchard. They then invited reviewers back in November. Hence, if you offer an opinion on Guerre, you should say which one—and maybe which month.

The version I saw, apparently much smoother than the original, still didn’t scream megahit. It follows the super-successful Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg pattern of conveying epic happenings through small personal stories, sung in rock-opera style and featuring spectacular sets and stage effects.

The focal story, from 16th-century France, is familiar from its many treatments, most recently an acclaimed 1982 French film, The Return of Martin Guerre, and a 1993 U.S. remake, Sommersby, which punningly starred Richard Gere. Guerre is a young villager who marries, then goes off to war. Years later, a man shows up claiming to be Guerre, and he’s accepted as such by the village—and the wife. Later, she changes her mind, and the man is brought to trial. He’s about to be acquitted when the real Guerre shows up, and the impostor is then condemned to death.

In the centuries since, the participants’ actions and motives have been vigorously debated. For this version, Boublil and Schonberg set the tale later in the century to provide a backdrop of religious war. Thus, Catholic-Protestant conflict is used to explain (some say muddle) some of the main happenings, like wife Bertrande’s change of heart.

And of course, there’s the Big Scene, this time in the second act as the phony Guerre is being chased. He and his pursuers wend their twisting, deftly choreographed ways through a huge multilevel set as its two segments whirl and twirl—the Les Miz revolving stage carried to its next generation.

The villagers execute some thrilling, stomping choreography, and the tech work, especially lighting, is outstanding. Spectacle aside, however, the script remains sticky in points, and the score doesn’t yet sup- ply the emotional power of earlier Boublil-Schonberg phenomena.

Miss Saigon

Theatre Royal, Drury Lane

By contrast, this Boublil-Schonberg offering remains the most moving of the lavish musicals, particularly Kim’s final realization of what she must do to give her child a future, and the famous helicopter-landing scene with the Vietnamese desperately scrambling to escape. The Madame Butterfly–like tale is powerful enough on its own, but when it’s coupled with the tragedy of our misguided effort in Vietnam—underscored with heartbreaking slides of the forsaken children—all set to soaring music and sung with heart-rending emotion, the effect is eye-filling, in several ways.

London’s current production is blessed with outstanding principals. Ma’Anne Dionisio (who alternates with Maya Barredo in the demanding Kim role) is tiny, but her singing and acting aren’t. And Robert Seña makes a dynamic, opportunistic Engineer.

Lady in the Dark

The Lyttelton, Royal National Theatre

This superb Royal National revival of the 1941 musical play by Moss Hart, with lyrics by Ira Gershwin and music by Kurt Weill (what a lineup!), made me hope producers over here will follow suit. It’s one of those landmark pieces that seem clichéd until you realize it was the inspiration for the copies.

First of all, its good score—highlighted by the haunting "My Ship"—is integrated into a meaningful story, something not true of most of that era’s musicals. And the plot came way ahead of its time with its strong female lead and use of psychotherapy.

In brief: A successful women’s magazine editor has disturbing dreams about the men she knows and is having increasing trouble making decisions. She goes to a psychiatrist and, through dream analysis, finds her way.

Credit the production’s style and vision to Francesca Zambello, a young and talented director most noted for her operas. She had the cast, headed admirably by Maria Friedman in the title role, acting (and sounding) like the dry, wisecracking Americans of ’40s films and plays. And if the women, particularly the editor’s witty chief aide (Charlotte Cornwell), seem generally more credible and likable than the men—well, maybe that’s part of the message.

Adrianne Lobel’s set, featuring tall triangular frames—that "Ship" motif—and translucent cloth, neatly mixed real and surreal and allowed smooth transitions from workaday office to colorful dreamlands. Likewise the costumes of Nicky Gillibrand.

Hey, Starlight, maybe for next year...

Art

Wyndham’s Theatre

This little comedy-drama—emphasis on the former—will likely become a theater staple. Given its three-man cast and minimal set, it can be produced almost anywhere, but that’s true of a lot of schlock. What sets Art apart is its remarkable script, which earned this year’s Olivier and Evening Standard awards as best comedy. The play got an early boost from its high-octane original cast (Albert Finney, Tom Courtenay and Ken Stott) but has switched to a new crew, less famous but no less capable, and rolls through sellout after sellout.

Yasmina Reza’s little story, translated from French by Christopher Hampton, concerns three longtime pals, Marc (David Haig), Serge (Anton Lesser) and Yvan (Mark Williams). Serge one day pays 200,000 francs for a pure-white painting (allegedly there are diagonal stripes and a pattern), and the acerbic Marc flips out. He hates the work and thinks Serge wasted the money. Yvan, a mediating type, tries to be positive, but that just irritates Marc more. The resulting arguments imperil their years-old relationship.

If the premise seems skimpy, the intelligent dialogue proves otherwise. There are loads of laughs as the guys, under Matthew Warchus’ crisp direction, alternately assail and placate one another, but the joy of the interplay lies in its examination of friendship and what it represents to each man, along with discourses on what art is worth. I suspect it won’t be too many years before we’ll see an all-woman Art. In whatever version, it’ll be around a long time.

The General from America

The Barbican, Pit Theatre

Leaving the theater, I was surprised to overhear a middle-aged Briton telling his companion, "I never heard of Benedict Arnold." Never heard of Benedict Arnold? How bad was this man in history? The name of this U.S. Revolutionary War hero-turned-traitor, every schoolchild over here quickly learns, is synonymous with dishonor.

That, of course, is a purely chauvinistic view. In England’s history books, Arnold rates just a paragraph or two, although his foiled plan to help British forces capture West Point could well have reversed the outcome of the war. Then today we’d be speaking English, quarreling with Europe and obsessively concerned with the scandals of the royal family.

Be that as it may, I thought it intriguing to see how this new play, by an American writer, would treat Arnold’s story and how an English audience might regard it. That reaction was pretty much epitomized by the man’s comment, interested but quizzical. As for the plot, Richard Nelson takes a linear, middle-road path, depicting how Arnold grew disillusioned with the Colonial cause and even felt betrayed by good friend George Washington. Arnold is fairly sympathetic at first, passionately devoted to his wife and suffering with his battle-caused artificial leg. Then, after his plot is discovered and he has to flee to England, he becomes contemptible, despised in the United States and an object of scorn in his new country, mainly because he’s considered a coward who deserted his homeland and family.

Howard Davies’ direction was documentary brisk, and the large and generally solid cast was anchored by James Laurenson as Arnold, with Corin Redgrave a proper Washington. It’s not a riveting play, but it merits more stints, particularly over here.

Women on the Verge of HRT

Vaudeville Theatre

HRT, for the uninitiated, is hormone replacement therapy, and it’s a chief concern for menopausal females. Ergo, this comedy, by Marie Jones, concerns two women heading into life’s autumn at different speeds.

After an opening filmed sequence that seemed interminable, the early dialogue offered glimmers of abundant wit and insight. But the wit trailed off into limp feminism, and the insights were presented better in Shirley Valentine. A third cast member played a series of males—basically foils for whatever point Jones was attempting to make at the moment.

Even with a half-price ticket, this one was no bargain.

These six, of course, represent only a snack from the theatergoers’ banquet that is London. Last time I checked, there were 170 or so productions running in the West End and fringes. So you can take one of those direct British Airway flights, head to the Half Price Ticket Booth on Leicester Square—be sure you go to the real one, in the little house on the square—and be assured that you’ll find something good (and affordable) to see.