home | art & architecture | books & cds | dance | destinations | film | opera | television | theater | archives
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Having one’s love letters revealed to outsiders can be terribly
embarrassing. Recall Prince Charles epistle to
his beloved Camilla. In the case of The Drowsy Chaperone, however, the love letter is
delicious, it is the beloved who causes the observer to wince. Billed as “an unabashed love letter to musical
comedy,” the play within a play is a
slender, nay, skinny, imitation of the best of the genre lacking the magic that has packed
Broadway houses for years. The love letter is
well drafted, but, alas, not enough to sustain an evening.
Co-author Bob Martin is the “Man in Chair”/ narrator who
plays his treasured record album of this 1920’s musical which never was. His Man in Chair, a lonely, fussy, middle-aged gay
man with a passion for musical comedy, is spare and he resists the temptation to be camp. He sits alone in the corner of his tidy, cluttered
studio apartment clutching his brandy and the album cover, and sharing with the audience
the piece de resistance of his collection. In
addition to playing the tunes, his imagination transforms his apartment into the sets of The Drowsy Chaperone, peopled by a full cast and
fifteen piece orchestra. Man constantly
interrupts, apologizing for sections he knows are weak, trying to impart his enthusiasm to
the audience, and having the cast repeat the ones he adores but fears the audience may not
be understanding; he is engaging, but a tad embarrassing; the bachelor uncle who is fine
in small doses. Heaven forbid he should come to
stay and move in.
It is a challenge is to write something intentionally inane without
it’s being awful to watch. Well, Chaperone, is
not awful but it certainly ain’t good. It
is not The Producers, which successfully met
that challenge. Alas, there is nothing that an audience member will hum on the way out of Chaperone. Nothing
rises to the heights of Springtime for Hitler,
though the senile Mrs. Tottendale’s (Georgia Engel) “I Remember Love .. at least I think I do”
may strike a chord with some. The Man in a
Chair is beautifully drawn, but is not enough to sustain the production.
Musicals from the twenties by Irving Berlin and the Gershwins were
written to showcase stars of the time. By and large the weak books of those musicals have
faded and only the set pieces have survived. Sutton Foster (Janet), the Broadway star who
is about to throw it all away to marry the handsome playboy, has the show-stopping looks
and moves to carry the part off, but neither choreography nor material gave her the grist
that won her a Tony for her performance as Millie in Thoroughly
Modern Millie. Chaperone, Beth Leavel,
drowsy in her perpetual alcoholic fog, has the appearance of a star just past her prime,
but her Mermanesque efforts at stealing the stage lacked conviction. Aldolpho (Danny Burstein), the self proclaimed
champion of Latin lovers is a Saturday Night Live bit repeated a few too many
times.
Nor does the passion of this lonely “man in a chair” rise to
the heights of obsession – and drama - found in the Maria Callas obsessed men
pursuing The Lisbon Traviata (by Terrance
McNally), as though the album were the holy
grail. The seekers of that grail were foolish,
but, by God, they were out there. Man’s
quiet despair evokes pity – first for him, then for the lack of an intermission to
interrupt the almost two hour production. The
Drowsy Chaperone has the good hearted feel of a college review by talented youngsters
from whom it would be interesting to see the mature product.
It is a love letter without a story to flesh it out.
