Dogs in the Heather, or, Too Much Jig for One Foot
Our family has season tickets for all the mainstage Lyric Theatre productions (2012-2013 season): those being The Merry Widow, which we missed because we had both forgotten if we'd bought tickets and didn't find them until weeks after the show closed, Brigadoon running currently through April 14th, and upcoming, the seldom performed final collaboration of Mssrs Gilbert and Sullivan, The Grand Duke.
Yesterday, we saw Brigadoon, but because I thought Chris had put the tickets somewhere safe, and Chris thought I had put the tickets somewhere safe, we spent half an hour scrambling around our work-in-progress house, peering in boxes and slamming doors before racing off to throw ourselves on the mercy of their ticket desk. Instead of a leisurely stroll downtown, it was a frantic death march, as I swore vitriol at myself, walked crippling blisters onto both feet and grumbled right up until the last minute.
I keep forgetting this is the future. The ticket desk has a computer and a printer. It was the work of a moment to spit new tickets (for our already assigned seats) into our hands, and we were shown to our seats between the curtain opening speech and the overture, and enjoyed a matinee show. But I think I enjoyed it for the wrong reasons.
This production of Brigadoon was a good show the same way a box of cake mix and a carton of eggs is a birthday cake. It had some really stellar lead performers, a solid chorus, a decent costume design, a mostly inoffensive set design (more on that in a moment) and some very talented dancers. Unfortunately, the way they were all put together resulted in a wet, limp mess.
It doesn't help that Brigadoon is a relic from the era when the concept of what made a good Broadway show was changing. It's an old fashioned style of show that has barely enough plot to excuse a series of gay, sparkling musical numbers designed primarily as a showcase for star turns. Any plot advancement is purely incidental. Leads get two songs each: an up tempo number and a ballad. The comic roles get lots of snappy dialogue. There are several ballet interludes set to instrumental reprises of the main themes. It's paint by numbers classic. But the stakes raised in the story are high, and a modern audience, fed on Sweeney Todd, Les Miserables and other shows where the melodrama is the focus, it takes a deft directorial touch staging the life-and-death parts of the show without making the audience feel cheated of a proper resolution and making it okay for them to enjoy the frivolous nature of the musical numbers that follow.
Sadly, it appears that the director did not understand this challenge. The B-plot of Harry Beaton's jealousy and subsequent death five minutes into the second act is given undue prominence, both by virtue of all relevant scenes being staged prominently downstage with a refreshingly direct simplicity, and the climactic chase sequences achieved by having the actors chase each other through the aisles for an "in your face" breaking the fourth wall sort of experience.
To contrast, the A-plot of American Tommy and his drunken pal Jeff stumbling into the magical village is obscured (quite literally at times) by a parade of monolithic grey tree trunks gliding Dalek-like across the scene during transitions, scene changes and sometimes just for the fun of it. In fact, my husband initially thought they were supposed to be giant standing stones, like in the old Doctor Who story The Stones of Blood. I think the addition of the Doctor and a companion to the show wouldn't have changed much of the plot, frankly, and would have at least provided context for all the corridor running and wibbley-wobbly timey-wimey bafflegab the Schoolmaster gets to spout. Even without the trees, the set changes were noisy, awkward looking, distracting and the difference between one highland vista and another really didn't impress itself on me. There were different arrangements of stairs and ramps and greenery, but none of them stood out as particularly suggestive of place, and only seemed to close up an already small stage with too many people attempting to dance on it.
But, to be fair, the scene changes with all their faults would not have been as much of a problem if it weren't for the utter lack of charisma displayed by Andrew Elia Laula's Tommy Allbright. He's a handsome enough actor, which might be enough to excuse his casting if he were either a great dancer or singer. Sadly, he is neither. He had neither rhythm nor passion, and not only seemed unable to remember his lines fluently, frequently misspeaking and tripping over words, he continually seemed on the verge of tripping over his own feet. His musical diction placed strange emphasis on all the wrong consonants, but to his credit: he hit all his notes solidly. Even these faults I might have forgiven him if he had made me believe in his character, but I did not believe a single thing Tommy Allbright said or did. He sleepwalked through the part, like a store mannequin with a malfunctioning tape recorder hidden under his shirt.
But mannequin-like tenors are nothing new in theatre. Here again the staging worked against him, making a difficult task impossible. For example, "Heather on the Hill", the slow lyrical duet that is supposed to show the growing attraction between our young couple, was staged placing each of them on the opposite side of the stage, looking out over the audience, away from each other. We were, perhaps thankfully, spared a pas de deux. (I cannot speak for Alexandra Quinn's dancing ability, but her Fiona MacLaren was beautifully sung and acted as best she could with the equivalent of a -5 charisma debuff hanging on her arm.) Instead, the dancing was provided by the inclusion of several members of the corps de ballet posing as gooseberries in the gorse, each holding sprigs of heather for Fiona to gather into her basket. I can imagine a world in which this staging conceit could have worked. This world isn't it. The choreography, furthermore, appeared embarrassingly underrehearsed and in itself was only just marginally more interesting than whatever Tommy was doing on the other side of the stage.
Sadly, the other love-line in the plot fared no better. Mark Blattel's Charlie Dalrymple sang his "Come To Me, Bend To Me" with technical ease and passion, but was overshadowed by a ribbon-on-a-stick prop that cracked like a horsewhip all through the dance number that accompanied him. But he, Jessica Golden (as Meg Brockie) and Mark C. Helton (as Jeff Douglas) all turned out solid, engaging performances that even the walking trees couldn't overshadow.
In fact, numerous times I caught glimpses of a really good show lurking underneath the muddled and incoherent staging. The chorus sounded beautiful. The close, tight harmonies were well executed, except on one or two occasions when they were blocked backstage and lost the beat of the conductor (over video feed, I assume?) momentarily. In several places the choreography worked very well, the dancing crisp and cleanly synchronized, only to descend again into chaos after sixteen measures. And with all the speaking parts this show has, their dialect was surprisingly uniform and not as distracting as such things can be.
If I could judge this show solely on the merit of Meg Brockie leading the chorus in "Me Mother's Wedding Day" (which my son volunteered was his favorite part of the show) I would have said with unreserved enthusiasm that locals should get a hold of tickets for the final weekend and go see it. But this is a production better enjoyed with an ironic eye and an understanding of the meta issues of theatrical production. Otherwise, go rent The Bandwagon and you'll probably get a pretty good idea of the dynamics at play.
After the show, the family and I found a restaurant willing to feed us and we dissected the experience, like you do. My husband thought that Brigadoon was a great place to set a tabletop gaming campaign, possibly with Dogs in the Vineyard or an episode of The Avengers, with Mr. Steed and Mrs. Peel called in to investigate a small highland village conspiring to keep a deadly secret. (I think I've seen that one.)
I countered that it would probably work as a campaign using the rules for Too Much Rock for One Hand, but conceded this morning that it would also make a pretty solid horror film if we assign a malevolent intelligence the monolithic stones, and assume their object is blood. Harry Beaton was only their first victim... And does Meg Brockie have to die first because she's the girl making out with the guy in the open convertable... er, ...shed? Or is she the sinister witch the old minister warned his congregation about? If not her, then who is directing the stones on their killing spree...? Why don't we take all this wasted talent and put on a show in the old barn...?
It disappoints me more to see an "almost there" production than it does to see one that clearly never had a chance and never would. I could see how with another couple weeks of rehearsal and the elimination of those gawdawful tree things there might actually be a good production of Brigadoon there. Unfortunately, this isn't it. But I applaud Lyric for taking risks, and love them all the more for giving a new director a chance, even if he falls totally flat on his ass and takes a whole cast of people with him. Next time, fail better.
Yesterday, we saw Brigadoon, but because I thought Chris had put the tickets somewhere safe, and Chris thought I had put the tickets somewhere safe, we spent half an hour scrambling around our work-in-progress house, peering in boxes and slamming doors before racing off to throw ourselves on the mercy of their ticket desk. Instead of a leisurely stroll downtown, it was a frantic death march, as I swore vitriol at myself, walked crippling blisters onto both feet and grumbled right up until the last minute.
I keep forgetting this is the future. The ticket desk has a computer and a printer. It was the work of a moment to spit new tickets (for our already assigned seats) into our hands, and we were shown to our seats between the curtain opening speech and the overture, and enjoyed a matinee show. But I think I enjoyed it for the wrong reasons.
This production of Brigadoon was a good show the same way a box of cake mix and a carton of eggs is a birthday cake. It had some really stellar lead performers, a solid chorus, a decent costume design, a mostly inoffensive set design (more on that in a moment) and some very talented dancers. Unfortunately, the way they were all put together resulted in a wet, limp mess.
It doesn't help that Brigadoon is a relic from the era when the concept of what made a good Broadway show was changing. It's an old fashioned style of show that has barely enough plot to excuse a series of gay, sparkling musical numbers designed primarily as a showcase for star turns. Any plot advancement is purely incidental. Leads get two songs each: an up tempo number and a ballad. The comic roles get lots of snappy dialogue. There are several ballet interludes set to instrumental reprises of the main themes. It's paint by numbers classic. But the stakes raised in the story are high, and a modern audience, fed on Sweeney Todd, Les Miserables and other shows where the melodrama is the focus, it takes a deft directorial touch staging the life-and-death parts of the show without making the audience feel cheated of a proper resolution and making it okay for them to enjoy the frivolous nature of the musical numbers that follow.
Sadly, it appears that the director did not understand this challenge. The B-plot of Harry Beaton's jealousy and subsequent death five minutes into the second act is given undue prominence, both by virtue of all relevant scenes being staged prominently downstage with a refreshingly direct simplicity, and the climactic chase sequences achieved by having the actors chase each other through the aisles for an "in your face" breaking the fourth wall sort of experience.
To contrast, the A-plot of American Tommy and his drunken pal Jeff stumbling into the magical village is obscured (quite literally at times) by a parade of monolithic grey tree trunks gliding Dalek-like across the scene during transitions, scene changes and sometimes just for the fun of it. In fact, my husband initially thought they were supposed to be giant standing stones, like in the old Doctor Who story The Stones of Blood. I think the addition of the Doctor and a companion to the show wouldn't have changed much of the plot, frankly, and would have at least provided context for all the corridor running and wibbley-wobbly timey-wimey bafflegab the Schoolmaster gets to spout. Even without the trees, the set changes were noisy, awkward looking, distracting and the difference between one highland vista and another really didn't impress itself on me. There were different arrangements of stairs and ramps and greenery, but none of them stood out as particularly suggestive of place, and only seemed to close up an already small stage with too many people attempting to dance on it.
But, to be fair, the scene changes with all their faults would not have been as much of a problem if it weren't for the utter lack of charisma displayed by Andrew Elia Laula's Tommy Allbright. He's a handsome enough actor, which might be enough to excuse his casting if he were either a great dancer or singer. Sadly, he is neither. He had neither rhythm nor passion, and not only seemed unable to remember his lines fluently, frequently misspeaking and tripping over words, he continually seemed on the verge of tripping over his own feet. His musical diction placed strange emphasis on all the wrong consonants, but to his credit: he hit all his notes solidly. Even these faults I might have forgiven him if he had made me believe in his character, but I did not believe a single thing Tommy Allbright said or did. He sleepwalked through the part, like a store mannequin with a malfunctioning tape recorder hidden under his shirt.
But mannequin-like tenors are nothing new in theatre. Here again the staging worked against him, making a difficult task impossible. For example, "Heather on the Hill", the slow lyrical duet that is supposed to show the growing attraction between our young couple, was staged placing each of them on the opposite side of the stage, looking out over the audience, away from each other. We were, perhaps thankfully, spared a pas de deux. (I cannot speak for Alexandra Quinn's dancing ability, but her Fiona MacLaren was beautifully sung and acted as best she could with the equivalent of a -5 charisma debuff hanging on her arm.) Instead, the dancing was provided by the inclusion of several members of the corps de ballet posing as gooseberries in the gorse, each holding sprigs of heather for Fiona to gather into her basket. I can imagine a world in which this staging conceit could have worked. This world isn't it. The choreography, furthermore, appeared embarrassingly underrehearsed and in itself was only just marginally more interesting than whatever Tommy was doing on the other side of the stage.
Sadly, the other love-line in the plot fared no better. Mark Blattel's Charlie Dalrymple sang his "Come To Me, Bend To Me" with technical ease and passion, but was overshadowed by a ribbon-on-a-stick prop that cracked like a horsewhip all through the dance number that accompanied him. But he, Jessica Golden (as Meg Brockie) and Mark C. Helton (as Jeff Douglas) all turned out solid, engaging performances that even the walking trees couldn't overshadow.
In fact, numerous times I caught glimpses of a really good show lurking underneath the muddled and incoherent staging. The chorus sounded beautiful. The close, tight harmonies were well executed, except on one or two occasions when they were blocked backstage and lost the beat of the conductor (over video feed, I assume?) momentarily. In several places the choreography worked very well, the dancing crisp and cleanly synchronized, only to descend again into chaos after sixteen measures. And with all the speaking parts this show has, their dialect was surprisingly uniform and not as distracting as such things can be.
If I could judge this show solely on the merit of Meg Brockie leading the chorus in "Me Mother's Wedding Day" (which my son volunteered was his favorite part of the show) I would have said with unreserved enthusiasm that locals should get a hold of tickets for the final weekend and go see it. But this is a production better enjoyed with an ironic eye and an understanding of the meta issues of theatrical production. Otherwise, go rent The Bandwagon and you'll probably get a pretty good idea of the dynamics at play.
After the show, the family and I found a restaurant willing to feed us and we dissected the experience, like you do. My husband thought that Brigadoon was a great place to set a tabletop gaming campaign, possibly with Dogs in the Vineyard or an episode of The Avengers, with Mr. Steed and Mrs. Peel called in to investigate a small highland village conspiring to keep a deadly secret. (I think I've seen that one.)
I countered that it would probably work as a campaign using the rules for Too Much Rock for One Hand, but conceded this morning that it would also make a pretty solid horror film if we assign a malevolent intelligence the monolithic stones, and assume their object is blood. Harry Beaton was only their first victim... And does Meg Brockie have to die first because she's the girl making out with the guy in the open convertable... er, ...shed? Or is she the sinister witch the old minister warned his congregation about? If not her, then who is directing the stones on their killing spree...? Why don't we take all this wasted talent and put on a show in the old barn...?
It disappoints me more to see an "almost there" production than it does to see one that clearly never had a chance and never would. I could see how with another couple weeks of rehearsal and the elimination of those gawdawful tree things there might actually be a good production of Brigadoon there. Unfortunately, this isn't it. But I applaud Lyric for taking risks, and love them all the more for giving a new director a chance, even if he falls totally flat on his ass and takes a whole cast of people with him. Next time, fail better.