With the newly restored Henry Miller's Theatre, the Roundabout has another Broadway house under its wing. But with the launch of the venue's inaugural production, a bumbling, badly cast version of "Bye Bye Birdie," it also has egg on its face.
Director/choreographer Robert Longbottom ("Side Show," "Flower Drum Song") has staged the sweet, hit-filled 1960 classic like an exaggerated comic book. In the process, many of the charms have been smothered and characters emerge as plastic as the scenery.
The musical has been away from Broadway since 1961, but it's been running everywhere else. "Birdie" is a famous film and TV tale, and it's a staple for high schools, community players and regional theaters. The songs (by Charles Strouse and Lee Adams) and story (by Michael Stewart) are deeply ingrained in pop culture.
A quick recap: When Elvis-like teen idol Conrad Birdie (an entertaining Nolan Gerard Funk) gets drafted in the late 1950s, his manager Albert (John Stamos) and his long-suffering secretary, Rose (Gina Gershon), hatch a PR stunt to send him off on a high note so all will benefit.
Before he goes to Uncle Sam, Conrad hits small-town Ohio to smooch his No. 1 fan, Kim (Allie Trimm), on "The Ed Sullivan Show." The fun is that everyone's best-laid plans go awry. While some jokes have grown musty and there's a non-finale, the show is loaded with snappy songs, which in the right pipes sound great.
Stamos and Gershon have done musicals, including "Cabaret," but they're limited singers and dancers. Both are surprisingly robotic. It's painful watching them execute Longbottom's lame moves and hack through roles Dick Van Dyke and Chita Rivera made famous. The former "Showgirls" stripper wobbles as she warbles. The ex-"ER" doc looks uneasy in his big numbers, "Put on a Happy Face" and "Rosie." Sparks or a connection between them? MIA.
As Albert's co-dependent mother, Jayne Houdyshell stirs up only a couple of laughs from a part that can be a side-splitter. The typically topnotch Bill Irwin plays Kim's uptight dad, who gets the plum song "Kids," yet acts like a nut off his meds. What's more distracting: Irwin's outlandish outbursts or the garish, color-coded costumes that look like a Skittles nightmare? Call it a draw.
Forty-nine years ago, "Birdie" put teen subculture in the spotlight. This production is at its best when the kids are center stage, especially in "A Lot of Livin' to Do," led by the hip-swiveling Funk, plus the pretty-voiced Trimm and the young ensemble. It's got the right restless energy and exuberant optimism. Shame it's only a rare moment when Broadway's new "Birdie" takes flight.
If you get a chance, send a few dozen get-well cards to Henry Miller’s Theater, the new, handsomely renovated outpost of the Roundabout Theater Company empire. Flu season has arrived, and an especially mean virus appears to have attacked the cast of the revival of “Bye Bye Birdie,” which opened Thursday night.
I don’t think it’s the swine flu that has flattened Robert Longbottom’s production of this popular 1960 musical about rebel rock ’n’ roll versus small-town America wholesomeness. The symptoms in this case include tin ear, loss of comic timing, uncontrollable jitters and a prickly disorientation that screams, “Where am I?” and “What am I doing?” Theatergoers may feel an empathetic urge to rush home and bury their heads in their pillows.
Clearly this is the sort of bug that could jeopardize the health of any red-blooded musical. For the silly, hokey “Bye Bye Birdie,” a show that just wants to have fun and be tuneful, it proves close to fatal. Directed and choreographed by Mr. Longbottom (“Side Show”) — with a cast led by John Stamos, Gina Gershon and Bill Irwin — “Bye Bye Birdie” may be the most painful example of misapplied talent on Broadway since the Roundabout’s production of “Hedda Gabler,” starring Mary-Louise Parker, last season.
Though long a favorite of high school theaters and summer stock, “Bye Bye Birdie” hasn’t been revived on Broadway since its first production, which starred Dick Van Dyke and Chita Rivera. (A 1963 film featured Mr. Van Dyke and a sexually overcharged Ann-Margret as its teenage heroine.) Despite a catchy score by Charles Strouse, with blithely jokey lyrics by Lee Adams and a book to match by Michael Stewart, the show seemed square even when it first opened.
Its title character, Conrad Birdie (played here by Nolan Gerard Funk), may have been inspired by Elvis Presley and the clamor surrounding his being drafted into the Army.
But the show introduced Birdie and the electrified music he embodied only to renounce them. “Bye Bye Birdie” was always proudly old-fashioned at heart, promising that it was the happy book musical — and not rock ’n’ roll — that was here to stay.
This makes “Birdie” a particular challenge for those hoping to sell it to New York theatergoers who have since embraced “Hair,” “Rent,” “Spring Awakening” and even “Billy Elliot.” Send up “Birdie,” and you kill its melodic friendliness; play it straight, and it just looks quaint.
Mr. Longbottom — who did admirably by “Side Show,” the daring and difficult 1997 musical about Siamese twins — has lost his sense of direction in trying to chart a path between those extremes. Designed by Andrew Jackness (sets), Gregg Barnes (costumes) and Ken Billington (lighting), the show’s shiny pastel (and willfully synthetic) appearance may be meant to capitalize on the currency of the hypnotically slick “Mad Men,” the multi-award-winning television series set in the same era. (Incidentally, the film version of “Birdie” figures in this season of “Mad Men.” What a hall of mirrors is American nostalgia.)
But the look and attitude of this “Birdie” — which follows the messy public-relations appearance of Conrad in a tidy little town called Sweet Apple, Ohio, just before he goes into the Army — are more evocative of an old Old Navy or Nick at Nite ad, the kind in which visual clichés of the late Eisenhower years were presented in stylistic quotation marks that rechilled yesteryear’s cool. This sensibility is (or was) tasty enough in 30-second spots. But stretched over two hours it does not create a world that actors, trying to create even semi-real characters, can inhabit comfortably.
Consider, for example, that the different families of Sweet Apple are color-coded, dressed in largely identical styles with a different bright hue per clan. Is this a statement on the conformity of the period? Or a means of distinguishing largely interchangeable cast members? Or just campy interior decorating?
Whatever the reasons behind these aesthetic choices, the show also betrays them. Black-and-white photographic projections (by Howard Werner) of frenzied teenagers (like those seen in the Life magazine coverage of the first Beatles concerts in the United States) offer a jolting contrast to the willfully artificial whimsy onstage. And the show’s leading performers are equally inconsistent in their approaches.
It’s true that many of them present themselves as cartoons, animated by physical slapstick, but they’re all from different comic books. As the mother-smothered Albert Peterson, the showbiz agent who manages Birdie’s career, Mr. Stamos affects an adenoidal speaking voice and a clownish body language (perhaps meant to recall Mr. Van Dyke’s) that make him seem the same age as Conrad’s fans. (Jayne Houdyshell, an immensely likable actress, seems out of her element as Albert’s dragon mom.)
This Albert, pencil-thin and skittish, is no match for his fed-up secretary and girlfriend, Rose Alvarez, played by the luscious Ms. Gershon. Bringing to mind the physical ripeness of Ava Gardner at her peak, Ms. Gershon also seems to share the lack of confidence in her part that Gardner often projected on screen.
Of course it’s unfortunate that Mr. Stamos and Ms. Gershon, who carry the burden of some of the show’s most hummable songs (“Put On a Happy Face,” “An English Teacher,” “Rosie”), tend to slide distractingly off key — not violently, but just enough to make you want to hit your ear.
They have more passable singing voices than Mr. Irwin, a dazzlingly talented big-time mime who in recent years has shifted successfully to serious dramatic parts (including last season’s “Waiting for Godot”). Mr. Irwin plays Harry MacAfee, a Sweet Apple paterfamilias whose daughter, Kim (Allie Trimm), a Conrad Birdie Fan Club member, is selected to be kissed by her idol on “The Ed Sullivan Show.”
This means that Mr. Irwin leads Kim and the rest of his family (Dee Hoty as his wife and Jake Evan Schwencke as his son) in the peerless satiric tribute to television worship, “Hymn for a Sunday Evening.” This requires four-part harmony, and with Mr. Irwin participating, the results are not pretty. Perhaps to compensate, Mr. Irwin lapses into his familiar neo-vaudevillian shtick, trying on disconnected funny postures and voices that make you wonder if Dad hasn’t gone psycho. (Watch out, Kim!)
Led by Ms. Trimm’s Kim (more Hannah Montana than Sandra Dee), the chorus of high school students sing shrilly and dance anxiously. Strangely enough, Mr. Funk, who missed several previews because of tonsillitis, seems more at ease onstage than anybody else. Closer to a Back Street Boys alumnus than Elvis, he’s not really right for the part. But he sings on key and appears to be enjoying himself. It’s nice to think that somebody is.
Warmed-over apple pie and flat soda pop, anyone? That's the all-American snack being served in less-than-optimum form in "Bye Bye Birdie." The first Broadway revival of the 1960 musical ought to be a lot more fun. But Robert Longbottom's miscast, over-designed production rarely musters the energy or effervescence its riot of candy color and teenage hormones might suggest. The show retains its corny charms and a bunch of tuneful songs, which might be enough for undiscerning family audiences; others will struggle to identify much authentic flavor in its aggressive blandness.
The revival got a free plug when "Mad Men" this season featured a story arc fetishizing Ann-Margret's performance of the title song written for the 1963 movie. So what if A-M, then 22, was more sex kitten than blushing virgin as she scampered up and down an invisible treadmill against a blue screen? The sequence was, and is, a cool jolt of kinetic pop art in an otherwise pedestrian film.
That song has been added as the revival's closing number, and pop-art influences are all over Andrew Jackness' suffocating set. But Longbottom has made little effort to refresh the material beyond smirking at it, which makes "Bye Bye Birdie" now seem hokey and tame. Catchy as the score still is, the cute progenitor has been eclipsed by its way sassier 2002 descendant, "Hairspray."
On one hand, the schizophrenic 1960 show is the conventional bumpy love story of mama's boy music manager Albert Peterson (John Stamos) and his secretary, Rose (Gina Gershon), who's getting antsy waiting for him to untie the apron strings and tie the knot. On the other, it's a tale of teen hysteria and family values under siege, as Albert's client Conrad Birdie (Nolan Gerard Funk) descends on Sweet Apple, Ohio, to plant a farewell kiss on fan club member Kim MacAfee (Allie Trimm) before the drafted rock star gets packed off to the Army.
Longbottom has cast kids who look like kids in the teen roles, which adds some bounce. But the plotline about the hip-swiveling menace threatening to shred the fabric of conservative small-town life never had any teeth to begin with. They might puff on cigarettes and even talk about an orgy, but there's no doubt these cartoon teens will be happily back behind their picket fences before long.
Casting Funk, who's closer to Zac Efron/Jonas Brothers wholesomeness than the original Elvis model, doesn't do much to amp up the sense of subversive danger. But the performer and his pelvis at least are having a good time, and his infectious rockabilly intro, "Honestly Sincere," is one of the few numbers cooking on more than a low flame.
The center of the show, however, is the stuttering romance between Albert and Rose. Stamos and Gershon give it their best shot, and both are extremely likable performers, but they have minimal chemistry. Neither sings or dances with much confidence, and the effort shows, giving the musical a feeble heart.
Stamos looks sharp in Gregg Barnes' nerdy-chic skinny suits, sprinkling his performance with a little Dick Van Dyke, a little Jerry Lewis. But he's not quite there. Gershon looks sensational in everything but is too naturally sultry to fit the part. Smoldering "Spanish Rose" from the get-go, she seems like she would sooner eat Albert alive than sit around waiting for him to become "An English Teacher" and marry her.
Longbottom doubles as director-choreographer, but the populous production is light on big dance numbers, with only act two's "A Lot of Livin' to Do" mobilizing the ensemble to reasonable effect. In "The Telephone Hour," he tries a variation on the iconic original staging, swapping the Mondrian-like maze of stacked cubes and rectangles for movable booths in eye-popping shades, with garish color-coordinated costumes; the result is busy but lacks precision. Likewise Conrad's "One Last Kiss" on "The Ed Sullivan Show," which sticks with the over-complicated concept of presenting the MacAfees as an American family through history. It's a mess that pretty much kills a good song.
The director shows a firmer hand in more intimate numbers. Trimm makes sweet work of "How Lovely to Be a Woman" -- watching this kid with braces assume the airs of sophisticated womanhood is charming and funny. Also winning is "One Boy," with Trimm alongside Matt Doyle as her briefly forsaken steady, Hugo.
Though many in the preview crowd lapped up his mugging, Bill Irwin is a miss as Kim's uptight dad, Harry. Irwin appears to be performing in an unrelated production, layering on Buster Keaton clown tics, rubber-legged Donald O'Connor moves and fussy vocal affectations. Plus, he should never be encouraged to sing in public again. Ever. As Mrs. MacAfee, Dee Hoty is fine, if not required to do much except assume Donna Reed mode.
The show's bright spot is the invaluable Jayne Houdyshell as Albert's monstrous mother, an unapologetic bigot and champion of maternal martyrdom. Swooping around in a voluminous matronly fur and fretfully clutching at her handbag or handkerchief, she's the one person who hits the satirical mark and fully inhabits her comic characterization.