By Juan Barquin
By Ciara LaVelle
By George Martinez
By Kat Bein
By Ciara LaVelle
By Travis Cohen
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Monica McGivern
The late Joseph Papp, visionary impresario and driving force behind the New York Shakespeare Festival and the Public Theater, once said, "There will never be another A Chorus Line." Indeed. First produced by the Shakespeare festival, A Chorus Line was handed over to Broadway entrepreneurs, and the money generated by the transaction has kept the festival alive for the last decade. Of course audiences, actors, and directors with an endless appetite for the production tend to interpret Papp's line in a more romantic way: There never will be another show that so embodies the fantasy of following your dream, no matter what the cost. And following it, as the lyrics to one of the play's showstoppers says, not to fill the cupboard or pay the health-insurance premium, but rather "for love."
Although linked to a tradition of such behind-the-scenes musicals as Gypsy and 42nd Street, A Chorus Line rightly was hailed for its originality when it opened in the mid-1970s. Choreographer and director Michael Bennett, and writers James Kirkwood and Nicholas Dante developed the show during a long workshop process in which they interacted with real dancers, who told stories of their struggles to stay afloat in the theater world. The result of their efforts was a two-act musical that takes place during an audition, wherein more than a dozen "gypsies," the often nameless cast members who serve as the chorus in big shows, are asked to recall when they first realized they wanted to be dancers. Never before in a musical had players stood on a bare stage and revealed themselves so honestly. Twenty years and twenty million changes in the culture later, the show continues to be performed at an almost relentless rate, on community stages and in professional theaters. There never may be another play like it, but does A Chorus Line merit yet another production?
Actors' Playhouse in Kendall seems to think so, and co-directors David Arisco and Robert DeLeon rally a talented cast to present an energetic rendition. The dancing is tight and toe-tapping, the ensemble singing excellent, and some of the individual numbers memorable, particularly Chrissi Guastella's (Diana) "What I Did for Love" and Angela Smith's (Val) bump-and-grind version of "Dance: Ten, Looks: Three," a number I usually hate. Elizabeth Palmer has attitude to burn as the tough-cookie-outside, terrified-of-aging-inside Sheila, and DeLeon is sweet and sad as Paul, although he strains just a bit too much for effect during his monologue about starting his career in a seedy drag show. Charlene Clark's strong stage presence translates into credible acting and dancing in the central role of Cassie, but as a chanteuse she doesn't have the voice to carry her showcase number, "The Music and the Mirror."
I especially liked the rough-around-the-edges quality Arisco and DeLeon bring to their Chorus Line, because so many productions of the musical are overly polished, with the dancers' memories sounding too rehearsed. But for two distinct reasons, I was struck by how dated the script has become: 1) The frankness about homosexuality, drag shows, and broken homes that imbued the original with so much honesty seems innocent today in an era in which people line up to appear on TV talk shows in order to disclose their deepest secrets. In fact, people save their most private revelations for such televised confessions. 2) A "book" as intimate about the theater as A Chorus Line's never could be written now without addressing, in some part, the AIDS epidemic, because so many people in the theater community, including Michael Bennett, have died as a result of AIDS-related illnesses. Given these considerations, it's to Actors' Playhouse's credit that the book comes off as fresh as it does.
Don't be put off by the unappetizing title of another song-and-dancefest, Bagels & Yox, currently at Palm Beach's Royal Poinciana Playhouse. I went to see the two-act nightclub revue on the strength of its stars, Bruce Adler and Mal Z. Lawrence, and I was not disappointed. These consummate professionals have honed their skills on stages from the Catskills to Broadway to Vegas, and they deliver their material to South Florida audiences with relish.
The show opens to the strains of spirited klezmer music performed by an on-stage orchestra under the musical direction of Zalmen Mlotek, which immediately gives way to a little-bit-of-this, a-little-bit-of-that back-and-forth banter between Adler and Lawrence. I was convinced I'd stumbled on a cross between a bar mitzvah and MGM's That's Entertainment, but the show turns out to be much more. Adler, a polished, first-rate song-and-dance man, on leave from Broadway's Crazy for You, headlines the first act. With irrepressible energy and a rich voice, he takes us down a Yiddish-theater memory lane, including tributes to such Second Avenue icons as Mickey Katz and Menasha Skulnick. Lawrence takes over in act two with his smooth and expertly timed standup act, hysterically lampooning everything from life in Florida to aging to marriage to the proclivity for overeating at hotels in the Catskills. (The on-stage musicians barely could contain themselves from cracking up.) The act also features Isabelle Farrell, who joins Adler on a couple of songs (she's less steady on her feet than the other entertainers), and the wonderful Joanne Borts, who opens act two with panache, singing several solo numbers.