Review: Life is a CABARET at Split Stage

Cabaret is a rarity among musicals, making a major impact for itself in not one, but three distinct and separate forms. First there was the glitzy, ironic 1960s production starring Joel Grey as a winking, smirking Emcee; then, the famous Fosse film with Grey and Liza Minnelli, drawing only characters and songs from the stage show; most recently, the reimagined, "uncensored" British-American production which restored material cut for time and content from the original stage version. With dynamic star performances from Alan Cumming and Natasha Richardson, this Cabaret was often referred to as "the good version," "the sexy version" or "the cool version" among theatre fans. Only recently has Tams-Witmark begun licensing this seedier, darker version of the show (despite years of productions of the "traditional" version drawing unofficial inspiration from it), and Split Stage is the first company in the area to present the 1998 version of Cabaret. And what a time to be doing it. Directors Rob Jessup and Nate Newell have picked the best (or worst) possible political moment to stage one of the most political musicals ever written.

If you're reading this review, chances are you're already familiar with the three parallel plots of Cabaret, which intertwine in Weimar Berlin during the buildup to Kristallnacht: the unconventional friendship/love affair of torch-singing nihilist Sally Bowles (Katie Aiello McCusker) and sexually ambivalent writer Cliff Bradshaw (Josh Reardon); the tragic romance of aging German landlady Fraulein Schneider (Linda Stayer) and her Jewish grocer Herr Schultz (Ron Ferrara); and the seedy goings-on at the Kit Kat Klub cabaret, a den of iniquity in which Nazis and "undesirables" mix under the sardonic eye of the Emcee (Mandie Russak). Though the plot remains the same, this edition of Cabaret is darker and dirtier than the previous licensed one, with more sex, more violence and the now-famous "twist ending" that made explicit what was left ambiguous in the original.

Regardless of textual variation, any given production of this show will leave you with a different impression of who the main character was. Perhaps it was the strength of their performances, or the dangerous political era in which the show is set (and produced), but for the first time I found myself viewing the older couple as the main characters and not as the B-plot. Linda Stayer sinks her teeth into the role of Fraulein Schneider, which (Sondheim be damned) is likely the greatest role ever written for women of a certain age. As her lover, Herr Schultz, Ron Ferrara brings both the prerequisite kindly and loving nature and a genuine sexuality to the character. These two are lovers, not just sweethearts.

Josh Reardon embodies the somewhat enigmatic Cliff Bradshaw capably, though the character has been reduced in this rendition from leading man to supporting. A writer with nothing to write, Bradshaw is tight-lipped about his sexuality (even to himself), seemingly preferring men all but exclusively, yet still finding himself in a love affair with Sally Bowles. Reardon, whose Cliff no longer has much of a chance to sing, finds passion and conviction in a character who barely exists on the page. Simultaneous to Cliff's diminishment, Katie Aiello McCusker gets an enlarged role as Sally, who has two additional musical numbers in this version of the show. Sally Bowles is a difficult role: a hugely musical part who is defined by being not a great singer or dancer, and a charming character who is nonetheless loathsome and grotesque once you get to know them. McCusker inhabits the coquettish, vulnerable private Sally somewhat better than the public Sally, which lacks a little brassiness and grit. Nonetheless, her choice to play up Sally's ambivalent, forever-lost quality, rather than her stubborn nihilism, leads to a truly fascinating performance of the title song. Rather than a statement of purpose, battle cry or sob of resignation, McCusker plays this layered moment as a fight-or-flight moment, looking desperately for any way out of her situation but finding none.

It would be impossible to talk about Sally in this production without discussing Mandie Russak as the Emcee. Who and what the Emcee is varies from production to production. Joel Grey's Emcee was the sneering face of German complacency, as Alan Cumming used the role as the face of sardonic opposition and rebellious anti-authoritarian satire. (One recent UK revival combined the roles of the Emcee and Ernst Ludwig, clarifying the shady Nazi racketeer's nebulous connection to the cabaret.) Russak plays the Emcee as a shadow-Sally. Her songs do not necessarily comment abstractly on the social and economic forces present in Bowles's life, so much as they comment directly and snarkily on the woman herself. Russak's Emcee has no loyalties and no beliefs, like Sally. She mocks Nazis, Jews and complacent "good Germans" with the same level of vitriol. Making an absurd mockery of Hitler in one scene, and unleashing a tirade of blows and ethnic slurs against Jews in her next appearance, Russak maintains her unflappable, defiant sneer to the end, a perfect exaggerated mirror of Sally's own lack of concern for politics and the lives of others. Nowhere is this more clear than in the performance of torch song "I Don't Care Much," which Russak escalates from a quiet rumination on the death of a love affair into a screaming insistence in her own unflappability. If she doesn't care- Sally or the Emcee alike- maybe this can all still blow over. (SPOILER: The now-standard reveal of the Emcee as a gay Jew in the last moment of the show felt almost like a copout with Russak's angry, ambiguous performance; up until that moment she had been the perfect living portrayal of the famous parable about the bystander who didn't speak up when "first, they came for the socialists...")

The ensemble, dressed in handmade and distressed costumes by Sharon Wiant, commits well to the depravity of a Weimar sex club masquerading as a cabaret but special mention must also be made of the show's three minor villains. Cassidy Adkins, as prostitute and German nationalist Fraulein Kost, benefits from an enlarged role, giving much of the song "Married (Heiraten)" to her. Although she all but disappears in Act 2, her friendly and personable demeanor, even to the point of singing a Nazi rallying song, only proves the insidiousness of this political ideology. Similarly, Ben Wren, who played affable lunatic Charles Guiteau in Assassins last year, proves the perfect likable, pompous bumbler as Ernst Ludwig until his true nature is revealed at the engagement party. Wren's round face and jolly demeanor make him ideal to play affable villains. Matthew R. Mlynarski, in a glorified cameo as club manager Max, has significantly less to do, but makes his few appearances count with a glowering physicality.

It only takes one anecdote to sum up the importance of Cabaret at a time like this, and I'll close my review by recounting it: when Act 1 ended with a fascist singalong, swastikas dropping from above and an audio recording of Adolf Hitler, audience members squirmed in their seats, unsure whether or not to clap. I guess it's a relief that even today, this is still shocking.

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