Dense Sondheim musical is no walk in the park; Darwin in Malibu catches some rays
by Martin Brady
Inspired by one of the world's most famous paintings—Georges Seurat's pointillist masterpiece Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte—Stephen Sondheim's musical Sunday in the Park with George is a considerably thornier work. It received mixed notices when it opened in New York in 1984, then was substantially dissed at the Tony Awards. (It won two, but for design only.) Conversely, the Pulitzer committee handed Sondheim its theater prize, an acknowledgment perhaps of ambition over achievement.
Sondheim's meditation on the nature of the artistic process may be intensely self-gratifying—a grand statement on the creator's relationship to his medium, his surroundings and his work. But those of us charged with the task of watching it risk boredom. Boiler Room Theatre's new production makes a game effort to entertain and instruct, letting us in on the creators' rare perceptions on light, color and painterly harmony. Even so, the complexities of the play's structure and its dour musicality tend to kill any momentum.
James Lapine's book fictionalizes the painter's biography, connecting his spirit to an invented modern-day heir who experiments in laser tech. The story's main intrigue happens in Act 1, as the subjects in Seurat's neo-impressionist masterwork come to life and play haphazard roles in his development of the artistic language he called Chromoluminarism—a plot point as tunefully conducive as it sounds. Act 2 completely changes up the thrust and escapes the 19th century setting, with more accessible results.
Alas, Sondheim's musical self-indulgence—while providing the accompanists (Jamey Green, Mark Beall and Jeffrey Williams) with typically interesting harmonic and rhythmic challenges—reaps aimless, often repetitive melodies that fake at operatic recitative with little emotional impact. As he has so often demonstrated, it isn't that Sondheim can't write a catchy tune, it's that he'd apparently sometimes rather tease his audience with boilerplate discord than strive for unalloyed beauty. That may make for a tantalizing composer's exercise, but as applied to Sunday in the Park, it too often yields unsettling, unsatisfying results.
You can't blame the actors. In the demanding lead, Mike Baum delivers a terrifically steady and strong performance. His leading lady, Greer Allison, as the model with whom Seurat has a special relationship, displays charm and competent if unspectacular singing chops. (Allison is making her BRT debut after a hiatus from a New York-based soap opera and regional theater career.) BRT newcomers Stephanie Dillard and Kendra Ford add to the positive mix, and the entire cast of 16 appears to accomplish what director Corbin Green intends. Yet there are tedious passages in Act 1 that make you wonder if returning after intermission is wise.
Sunday in the Park undoubtedly offers an intellectual challenge, and BRT accepts it courageously. But the off-putting material undermines their efforts. Better bet? Go to the Art Institute of Chicago and marvel at the painting.
Unnatural selection
Also monkeying around with history and reality is the Tennessee Rep production of Darwin in Malibu, Crispin Whittell's fanciful extrapolation in which great minds converge on a veranda at the California seashore. The setup is silliness: An astrology-fixated Charles Darwin (Henry Haggard) lolls about in the sun reading Pat Booth's steamy potboiler Malibu, while a Valley Girl-type named Sarah (Kahle Reardon) serves him smoothies. Their aimless, cannabis-enhanced reverie is interrupted by the arrival, in turn, of Thomas Huxley (Chip Arnold), Darwin's public champion back in the Origin of Species days, and Samuel Wilberforce (Sam Whited), who, as Bishop of Oxford, famously debated Huxley on the theory of evolution.
However absurdist Whittell's jumping-off point may be, it sets the audience at ease with his characters as flesh-and-blood people. The bracing, lighthearted tone ultimately morphs into something more serious, as Wilberforce and Huxley resume their tête a tête on issues of faith, the Bible and the existence of heaven. Wilberforce jabs his cynical colleagues with pointed bargain-basement psychology, part of his plan to bring them to God.
Arnold and Whited hold the keys to the play's success, and under director René Copeland's sure hand they offer mature and intelligent performances. Haggard is often humorously disengaged—his Darwin seems more interested in pot, cheap fiction and sun signs—but he also lucidly admits the flaws in his character's scientific work and discusses his daughter's death with affecting sobriety.
Reardon's joint-rolling hippie chick functions as the lone representative female figure, while also anchoring the unlikely contemporary Cali ambience. Her portrayal is superficially acceptable, but she leaves the lingering feeling she should convey more depth, however lightweight most of her dialogue.
Darwin in Malibu never reaches the peak of hilarity or inquiry its premise portends. But it provokes personal reflection on important human issues, and it evokes sincere laughter—one area in which it improves upon The Origin of Species. The play runs through May 16 at TPAC's Johnson Theater.
Twenty-five and counting
Tennessee Rep recently announced its 2009-2010 25th anniversary schedule. It's a modest four-show lineup, kicking off Oct. 3 with Steel Magnolias. For the holidays, there's a stage version of Jean Shepherd's beloved A Christmas Story (Nov. 21-Dec. 19), followed by David Auburn's Proof (Feb. 6-20)—previously produced by The Rep in 2003 with great success—and the Roger Miller musical Big River (March 20-April 10).
Email arts@nashvillescene.com.
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