Review - Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown & The Merchant of Venice

While there's certainly plenty to enjoy in the new musical version of Pedro Almodóvar's 1988 film, Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown - David Yazbek's jaunty Latin-based score, the winning performances of a star-studded cast (three Tony winners and four other nominees) and the kinetic flashiness of Bartlett Sher's kicky production - the show is also a prime example of how the sum of the pieces can add up to more than the whole when the missing ingredient is a strong book. Not that the talented Jeffrey Lane doesn't make a game try at it. Sticking closely to the source, his work is frequently clever and he and Yazbek concoct some quirkily fun musical scenes, but the odds are working against him in this one.

The difficulty with adapting the complicated Madrid story of crisscrossing affairs and lovers stems from the basic fact that non-musical farce moves much faster than musical comedy, where song and dance slows the pace of the storytelling. Musicals need time to develop empathy, too much of which kills farce, and with so many big names involved, all of whom require a number or two to make their presence worthwhile, the central story of Women On The Verge subsequently gets crushed beneath assorted moments of rather sparkling entertainment.

This is most unfortunate for Sherie Rene Scott, the charismatic singer-actress playing the main role of Pepa, a voice-over actress who gets dumped by her Lothario lover, Ivan (Brian Stokes Mitchell), via an answering machine message and spends the rest of the musical in the passive position of trying to find him and attempting to escape her sorrow via homemade gazpacho, juiced up with Valium. Hers is the least interesting role in an evening loaded with colorful characters doing amusing things.

The craftiest show-stealer turns out to be Laura Benanti, whose post-Gypsy career is establishing her as one of New York's most endearingly off-beat comic actors. As Pepa's model friend, Candela, who fears her new boyfriend is a terrorist, Benanti is a scream, maxing out her share of laughs through intelligently delivered scatterbrained lines and awkward physicality. The evening is never more appealing than when song, staging, design, book and performance frenetically coalesce in her musical scene, "Model Behavior," where a frazzled Candela goes through the paces of a busy day, leaving more and more desperate messages on Pepa's answering machine from any phone she passes.

Mitchell's mellow vocals are caddishly evocative in another one of the score's highlights, a song where Yazbek makes the best use of the words, "blah, blah, blah, blah," since Ira Gershwin, as Ivan teaches his son (an appealingly geeky Justin Guarini) how to seduce women through the seductive powers of the microphone. As his batty ex-wife, Lucia, Patti LuPone has a groovy turn with a 60s-style pop song, "Time Stood Still," which glides from a tune played from a record to a nostalgic solo and back again. Her second act dramatic number, "Invisible," may not be a standout but Ms. LuPone standing alone on stage singing about her character's suffering is always worth a few minutes of your playgoing time. As usual, Danny Burstein is funny and enjoyable but his role as a gregarious taxi driver is far too peripheral to warrant giving him two songs.

Catherine Zuber's 80s-chic costumes emulate the film's loud splashes of color, as do the frenetic abstracts of Sven Ortel's projections and Michael Yeargan's set. The visual energy and humor of their designs are welcome theatricAl Sparks. But Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown would probably benefit from not sticking so closely to the original and finding its own musical comedy tone and tempo.

Photos by Paul Kolnik: Top: Sherie Rene Scott; Bottom: Patti LuPone.

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It would certainly be an interesting experience for modern playgoers to travel back in time and see how The Merchant of Venice was first received by Shakespeare's audiences. Those only familiar with the play's famous, "Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions..." speech, spoken by the moneylender Shylock, might just assume the author meant it to be a drama attacking anti-Semitic tendencies of the day.

But The Merchant of Venice was first billed as a comedy; a merry romp of amusing lovers who get their happy ending by outsmarting a nasty villain, whose fate might have been seen in the play's premiering days as a hilarious punch line, or maybe even an inspiring opportunity for reformation. It took over 200 years for actors to start interpreting Shylock as a sympathetic character. Before then (and in German productions Hitler supported during his reign) the character was traditionally interpreted as a hideous stereotype. But maybe Shakespeare was pulling something over on his audiences because Shylock does absolutely nothing villainous in the play. His "crime" is simply being a Jew who dares to stand up for his rights when he is wronged by anti-Semitic Christians, but back in the day that might have been enough to send audiences happily out having enjoyed witnessing his downfall.

There's been a bit of recasting done in the transfer of director Daniel Sullivan's completely engaging and emotionally troubling production from the outdoor Delacorte to the Broadway confines of the Broadhurst but the most significant presence missing is the greenery and blue skies of Central Park, still clearly visible when the summertime 8pm performances commenced. The last remaining rays of daytime helped lighten the feel of the first act and much of evening was very, very funny. Now, on a smaller stage and with much darker hues supplied by lighting designer Kenneth Posner, the piece is more somber from the start and some of the recasting reflects a more melancholy tone to the proceedings.

Jess Goldstein's costumes set the evening in the Edwardian Period, a continuous reminder of the troublesome decades approaching, with the Christians looking snazzy in their colorful getups as opposed to the shadowy tones worn by the Jews. Mark Wendland's set places a ticker tape machine center stage with tall black iron gates that circle the stage on multiple tracks suggest both the exclusivity of high finance and the entrapment of the ghetto.

The drama begins (or the comedy, if you prefer) when the title character, Antonio (the excellent Byron Jennings playing the role with understated arrogance), arrives at the office of moneylender Shylock (Al Pacino) to secure a loan of 3,000 ducats on behalf of his friend, Bassanio (David Harbour), a youth of noble birth who has squandered away his money. Bassanio wants to use the cash to travel to Belmont and woo the wealthy and available Portia (Lily Rabe). The merchant would have loaned the money himself but with all of his ships out at sea he has no ready cash available. At the Delacorte, Bassanio was played with goofy charm by Hamish Linklater, but the hunkier Harbour is more manipulative; there's a much stronger suggestion that he's taking advantage of Antonio's unrequited love for him.

Shylock and Antonio do not have a pleasant history. The Christian regularly cuts into the Jew's business by loaning out money interest-free and once spat upon him for good measure. So the moneylender plays a little game with his rival by foregoing the normal interest and instead requiring a pound of Antonio's flesh if the loan is not paid in three months time. Happy to not pay interest and confident that his ships will be returning in plenty of time, Antonio agrees to the terms.

Of course, if Shylock was a villain he would have gone into the bargain with some previous knowledge of Antonio's ships being detained or would have done something to cause a delay. But no, it's pure fate that makes Antonio unable to come up with the cash and Shylock intends to be paid exactly as is stated in their agreement.

Pacino's deliberately mannered, hunched over Shylock is a man who has learned to play humble, perhaps at his most acidic when speaking civilly with the merchant, but who is capable of violent proclamation in response to attacks claiming he is being unduly vengeful. Sullivan peppers the production with everyday reminders of the indignities Shylock and his people suffer every day, increasing pathos for the character, so that when his own daughter, Jessica (Heather Lind), steals a good chunk of his wealth, converts, and runs off with her Christian lover, Lorenzo (Seth Numrich), the actor's rage is frightening and heart-breaking. In the more intimate theatre, a pantomimed scene added by Sullivan depicting the brutish violence of Shylock's forced baptism is more horrifically visible, as is Shylock's determination not to give his tormentors the satisfaction of knowing how he anguishes.

But Shylock, no matter how well played, is still a featured role and in Lily Rabe, Sullivan provides a Portia more than worthy of starring status. As the romantically frustrated prize whose deceased father's will demands can only be wed when a suitor of noble birth correctly chooses one of three metal casks, Rabe exudes a hilariously dry wit when ruminating on the flaws of her would-be husbands and radiates with world-weary, intelligent charm.

Nyambi Nyambi's marvelously comedic cameo as the pompous Moroccan Prince attempting to win Portia's hand has been replaced by a less-showy interpretation by Isaiah Johnson, but Charles Kimbrough is delightfully self-effacing as the elderly Duke taking his shot. Jesse L. Martin as Bassanio's genial and lusty pal, Gratiano, Marsha Stephanie Blake as the maid who entices his heart and Christopher Fitzgerald, in the clowning role of Shylock's employee, Launcelot, all contribute fine supporting turns to this excellent production.

Photos by Joan Marcus: Top: Al Pacino and Byron Jennings; Bottom: Lily Rabe and David Harbour.

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Cameron Mackintosh's 25th Anniversary production of LES MISERABLES, presented by The Paper Mill Playhouse, has finally hit the friendly American shores after touring Britain, and perhaps symbolic of its Atlantic crossing is the new opening picture devised by co-directors Laurence Conner and James Powell. Sure, 24601 (a/k/a Jean Valjean) is still a prisoner in chains for the crime of stealing a loaf of bread for his starving sister and her family, but he and his fellow inmates are now rowing oars on a galley ship. The music (Claude-Michel Schonberg) and words (Herbert Kretzmer, based on the original French text by Alain Boublil and Jean-Marc Natel) of this world-famous adaptation of Victor Hugo's 1862 novel, set against the backdrop of Paris' 1832 student revolution, are unchanged, but the new locale not only starts the evening off with a visually striking image, but signals to the musical's two-and-a-half decades worth of fans that this will not be just another variation of the original Trevor Nunn/John Caird production they are accustomed to. (A production that can still be enjoyed on the West End.)

The on-stage turntable, almost as iconic as the show's Little Cosette logo, which swiftly changed scenes and turned ensemble numbers into aerobic workouts, is gone. With false prosceniums tightening up the playing space, the 39-member company is pushed forward, creating a more intimate production that allows for more naturalistic acting choices. No, LES MISERABLES, is not being done as a chamber piece, but the pop opera style of singing and acting generally associated with the show has been toned down to a level where the character work of the performers can be admired as much as their impressive voices.

Actually, it's folk opera that comes to mind when hearing Lawrence Clayton singing the role of Valjean, who breaks parole and tries to reinvent his life under a new identity while being hunted by the idealist Inspector Javert. His earthy baritone has a pleasing, everyman warmth that beautifully turns ethereal when reaching heavenly heights in his second act prayer, "Bring Him Home," which thrilled the opening night audience so much they couldn't wait for his final note to finish before giving a roaring ovation.

Andrew Varela's rich, expressive baritone soars in Javert's solos, but the impact is made far greater by his sympathetic approach to the role; conveying the character's troubled soul as he heroically fights for a cause he believes is God's will. Betsy Morgan's brief time on stage as the abandoned mother, Fantine, forced into prostitution to care for her daughter, is utterly heartbreaking, singing "I Dreamed A Dream" as a physically broken and mentally defeated woman fighting death only for the sake of her child.

The low comedy is deftly handled by Michael Kostroff as the villainous innkeeper, Thénardier, and Shawna M. Hamic as his lowbrow wife. Jeremy Hays has a boyish sincerity that makes his portrayal of the spirited revolutionary, Enjolras, all the more sympathetic, and Jenny Latimer and understudy Jon Fletcher contributed lovely vocals in the rather thankless romantic roles of Cosette and Marius. Chasten Harmon has a powerful voice but singing Eponine with R&B stylings did not fit in with the rest of the production and came at the expense of any believability of her character's love for Marius.

Matt Kinley's set is a gorgeously moody collection of drops and projections inspired by the paintings of Victor Hugo; with Paule Constable's lighting and Adreane Neofitou's costumes they add up to a total design that greatly enhances the storytelling.

Photos by Deen van Meer: Top: Lawrence Clayton and Andrew Varela; Bottom: Jeremy Hays and Company.

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For a second there I thought they'd brought Xanadu back to the Helen Hayes Theatre, what with designer David Gallo providing another Greek amphitheatre setting. But while Xanadu warned of a decades-long artistic lull that would begin in the 80s, the theatre's new tenant, Colin Quinn's Long Story Short, predicts a complete decline of the American Empire. At least that's what director Jerry Seinfeld says.

Personally, I think he's overstating it a bit. What we have here is a travelogue through time of history's great cultures, with sharply edged zingers to tear apart each one of them, as well as draw parallels between their flaws and our own contemporary foibles. It's a brisk and funny 75-minute set that's perhaps a little subtler and a little smarter than what the comedian might be able to do in the land of tiny stages and noisy cocktail glasses.

Hand him a newspaper and Colin Quinn would pass for an outer boroughs Mort Saul. Just like when he gained national exposure during his stint as the Weekend Update anchor on Saturday Night Live, his style is to translate the intellectually and culturally elite into basic, regular guy common sense.

Darwin's Theory of Natural Selection simply means that the annoying people who would cut in line and only think of themselves were the ones who survived; "We are the descendants of the pricks."

"Greek children watched about 40 hours of plays a week," he tells us, but what they saw wasn't all that different from today's entertainment: "Antigone on her knees, crying over the loss of her dead brother" equals "Snooki on her knees, crying over the loss of her cell phone."

With a relaxed, genial delivery, Quinn balances high-minded topics like colonization of Africa, the Monroe Doctrine and the history of French and British relations with references to Martha Stewart and Mrs. Doubtfire; and it just pleases me to no end that somebody finally figured out a new line about the Holy Roman Empire.

Photo of Colin Quinn by Carol Rosegg.

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