It happens every now and again; a
show opens in a small venue,
sometimes a very particular small venue,
owing to the configuration of the space, or maybe even the space
itself—is it a reconverted gym, for example?—and it hits, ba-bing,
and everyone’s talking about it and then
comes the inevitable bright idea, Let’s move it to Broadway.
In the case of a musical, if it has enough universal juice to transcend its setting—if it has hidden reserves of size in its thematic makeup—it will somehow, usually, reflow into the larger environment; the two will adapt to one another. If it doesn’t…if its appeal turns out to have been inextricably linked to the charm of the environment, or—as people sometimes think of it—the lower expectation of a cheaper ticket (which can mean anything from surprise that the production would be so ambitious for such a small theatre, or acceptance of a less rigorous sensibility, more attuned to frivolous fun than craft or substance)—then Broadway is a very harsh host indeed.
And
such would seem to be the case with Lysistrata Jones.
Perhaps regrettably (I’ll never know), I missed its
downtown engagement last Summer, which was in the aforementioned reconverted gym
(where Queen of the Mist is currently playing, in fact). A
self-referential riff on Aristophanes, it offers us the head cheerleader of the
title (Patti Murin) who decides to
follow the lead of her Greek namesake, and band together all the cheerleader
girlfriends of the Syracuse College basketball team to withhold sex from their
boyfriends until the team finally develops the commitment and passion to win a
game. What ensues is a mildly “adultified” version of the kind of school comedy
you’d catch on the Disney channel (by which I mean, there’s kisses and hugs and
talk about sex, but in terms of actual booty and deed-doin’ it’s
all only slightly less innocent than an episode of Head of the Class), with very predictable plot threads and well-worn
character archetypes, including the intellectual girl who falls for a jock, a
jock who is secretly a scholar of classical poetry, and a white boy from a rich
family who insists upon talking like a black homey. Latin and Asian ethnicities
do not go wanting for similarly familiar representation either. Our
narrator/guide, who occasionally steps in to play a role is Hetaira (Liz
Mikel) so named for the ancient type of courtesan who provided both
intellectual and carnal stimulus to her clients; who is here put through the
filter of “den mother” overseer and reinterpreted as hot, black, sassy, big momma (Liz Mikel).
The
book by Douglas Carter Beane is very
school-sitcom quippy, and struggles mightily to sustain two acts that its
slender story doesn’t earn—fully half the time is spent treading water…or
perhaps a better metaphor is dribbling (in the basketball sense, no pun
intended) on the sidelines. The music and lyrics by Lewis Flinn are very hooky, energetic and, collectively, way too
anthemic. Give a show one great pep-talk or energetic-philosophy thesis, you
may have a catchy hit tune. Give it six—“Change the World”, “No More
Giving It Up”, “Lay Low”, “I Don’t Think So”, “Don’t Judge a Book”, “Give it
up!”—and propaganda (of a sort) outweighs character. The direction and
choreography of all this is delivered by Dan Knechtges with music video infectiousness and precision. But
it is rather like watching one music video after another…and if that’s not your
thing, you feel it after a while.
These
are the kinds of issues that seem so much less important when the audience is
sitting on either side of the action, literally on bleachers (well, chairs on
bleachers: I assume from having attended Queen of the Mist, that the same
basic theatrical comfort was provided), the house seats only 99 and the
relationship between audience and performer is intimate enough to be a little
personal. And that’s because the experience is about the intimacy. It’s about being invited to a private
party, about being an honored guest in the box seats for the home game. A music
video in your lap (as it were), with a sexy actress or actor making eye contact
and directly riffing off your engagement is a very different affair than
watching the same display on a proscenium stage…elevated…where there’s a back
wall—implying that between you and the actors is the invisible “fourth
wall”…and that the play is taking place somewhere else. You’re invited to look in, you’re directly invited to
respond appropriately at designated moments…
But
you’re just not in the game…
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