Can it be that sometimes, among NYC drama critics, there is a conspiracy of kind silence? Oh, not a formal one, nor a declared one, nor even one in which any formal or informal consensus exists…but rather, a kind of gestalt in the service of what’s perceived as a greater good?
The greater good would be keeping the current revival of the Yeston-Kopit musical Nine open. The conspiracy of kind silence would be a decision not to really review its new leading man, John Stamos. Because to actually discuss his ineptitude would be to ward audiences off. Whereas to skirt the issue slyly, make an end-run around it, let the reviews be more about the new supporting females than the new leading (and only) man, gives the show a shot at hanging on.
Can it possibly, possibly be that, in understanding the consequence of negative reviews, the NY press has decided, tacitly and in concert, to cooperate? How else to explain the Brantley Times review, with its curious stance that the show never made much sense anyway and besides it was always really about the women?
Well all right, let’s start with the women, because they’re the good news.
Eartha Kitt is in her distinctive fine, growly form as the mature sex kitten turned producer Lilliane Le Fleur; chronological age has dimmed her wattage not at all. As Carla, Guido’s steaming sexpot mistress, Sara Gettelfinger manages to be both Amazonian and vulnerable, with a fine Broadway belt. And as Guido’s muse, his co-star and constant leading lady, Rebecca Luker captures the serenity of the character, as well as her strength, and sings the hell out of the role.
Unfortunately, they have nothing much to relate to. Call Guido the beating heart of the show (as I believe he is) or call him just a foil, he is still at the eye of the feminine hurricane whirling around him, and without that glue holding "Nine" together—especially with this David Leveaux staging, which emphasizes text more than showbiz, and is far more fragile an affair than the original Tommy Tune production—each discreet section seems to splinter off from the core; there’s not a sense of collective momentum toward an inevitable theatrical climax.
How bad can Stamos really be?
Bad.
He can’t sing it. He lacks range and power, weak and breathy when he scoops down low, weak and strained when he reaches high (at times he doesn’t reach, but fakes instead a halfassed falsetto), his miking conspicuously cranked up whenever he’s in warble mode, just to give him any vocal presence at all. Worse, he can’t even communicate it, his diction is as garbled as his vocal range is limited; and the rhythms have been so rotely and foresquarely learned as to be reproduced lifelessly.
But wait, there’s more: Stamos is uncomfortable in his body. (On some unconscious level he knows he’s in over his head and the body language, his hands and arms flinging out all over the place, seemingly unconnected to what he’s saying, etc. are a clear indicator of his unease) and it makes the viewer uncomfortable. Because he makes the audience uncomfortable, he isn’t getting his laughs—and because he’s the center of the play, that kills 90% of the laughs that the OTHERS should be getting. His live charisma is modest, at best (his camera charisma is different), and it’s as if there’s a black hole at the center of the stage, sucking in all the energy that should be going out.
If I sound cruel or needlessly harsh, then I challenge you to see for yourself, and emerge feeling any differently. (The friend attending with me bemoaned the prospect of even trying to describe Stamos’ Guido to anyone. "Nobody would believe us," she said.)
How was he ever cast to begin with?
He was recently the Emcee in the revival of Cabaret, also a Roundabout Theatre production, and scored (apparently) as effectively there as ineffectively here. From all reports, he’s a splendid and kind fellow, and with the mutuality of a good experience informing the decision, no doubt the offer was made, with no thought to examine the goods further; no one predicted it would be necessary. Alas, Guido is a much more exposed and much less gimmicky role than the Emcee.
One wonders how "Nine" can continue to run, even with the informal "conspiracy" in place, but according to the press releases, Stamos is going all out to hawk the show on TV interviews, etc. And expectations of an arriving audience can count for a lot. They don’t know that the leading man dodged the bullet in the reviews, they only know the reviews were good. So the consumers will be pre-disposed toward charity.
There’s no way—there can’t be—that the creative team is unaware of their current Guido’s shortfalls. The only question is how urgently they feel they have to do something about it. And that requires an inside view to which I am not privy.
And maybe, indeed, with extra rehearsals and more performances under his belt, they’re making their own unspoken pact with his enthusiastic courting of the media.
Maybe they’re just hoping that somehow, miraculously, he’ll get that much better.
If you saw him, you’d understand just what a devil’s bargain of a hope that is.
But that’s the thing about being in the theatre.
You’re in the hope business.