By Ciara LaVelle
By George Martinez
By Kat Bein
By Ciara LaVelle
By Travis Cohen
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Monica McGivern
By Travis Cohen
Sometimes it takes an outsider's perspective to appreciate the nuances of a culture in ways that the members of the culture itself cannot appreciate. That certainly seems to be the case with the magnificent revival of Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein's 1945 American masterpiece, Carousel, in its current production by the Royal National Theatre of the United Kingdom.
Two distinctly American sensibilities have always characterized this haunting musical, set near the turn of the century, about a ne'er-do-well carnival barker who leaves behind a pregnant wife to fend for herself when he dies: faith in the future, and a dark current of brutality, anger, and disappointment. Most renewals of the show (including a 1956 film version) tend to downplay that brutality in favor of a glossy sentimentality. Director Nicholas Hytner (an Englishman) and set designer Bob Crowley (an Irishman) would have none of that for their Royal National Theatre interpretation, on-stage at the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts in West Palm Beach through this Sunday, March 17. Hytner's subtle and insightful direction refrains from softening the violence in the relationship between central characters Billy Bigelow and Julie Jordan; the director also compassionately illuminates the pair's working-class hardships. Meanwhile, Crowley's miraculous designs, influenced by the paintings of Andrew Wyeth, Winslow Homer, and Grant Wood, both underscore and enhance the director's vision. Scenes unfold in a series of stunning visual tableaux that portray stark and lonely New England landscapes as well as storybook renditions of an amusement park and heaven. Hytner and Crowley have created an "American primitive" version of Carousel that taps into the despair at the core of the show.
The opening scene will take your breath away. To the minor-key strains of Rodgers's "Carousel Waltz," the curtain rises on an enormous factory clock bearing down on young women working at a row of industrial looms. As the clock strikes the quitting hour, the music explodes and the girls burst from their chairs. The set begins to revolve; the clock and the loom disappear. On comes a huge metal gate, through which the girls escape. Next appears a wooden boat being worked on by an ensemble of young men, who dance with the girls. And then the boat gives way to an old-fashioned carousel, which twirls round and round, illuminated by hot orange light. It's an exhilarating transformation from forbidding gray factory to heady carousel ride, brilliantly imagined by the British team while simultaneously honoring Rodgers and Hammerstein's conception.
When composer Rodgers and librettist-lyricist Hammerstein joined forces in 1943, they began a partnership that changed the nature of American theater. Beginning with the seminal Oklahoma! in 1943, they departed from the sophisticated but lighthearted comedies and the score-dominated operettas that had characterized musicals since the Twenties. They created the musical play -- a combination of a well-made story, a strong score in which the lyrics directly relate to the tale being told, and modern-dance choreography in which every piece of music and every movement on the stage is part of the show's total concept. Their partnership lasted seventeen years and produced nine stage musicals, including The King and I, South Pacific, and The Sound of Music, plus State Fair for film and Cinderella for television.
For Carousel, their second career collaboration, they did away with the traditional overture that blended together snippets from the show's complete score, and in its place created a piece that stood on its own. The show opened with the wordless "Carousel Waltz," accompanied by a pantomimed prologue. After "Waltz" came the novel "If I Loved You" courtship episode, in which Hammerstein combined musical and spoken phrasing in an extended song-and-dialogue scene.
I saw the Hytner/Crowley production at the Jackie Gleason Theater of the Performing Arts, where it played from February 28 through March 3. Regrettably, on the night I attended both Patrick Wilson (Billy) and Sherry D. Boone (Julie's marriage-obsessed best friend Carrie Pipperidge) were victimized by the Gleason Theater's unpredictable sound system.
While the role of Julie presents an actress with several lovely songs ("If I Loved You," "What's the Use of Wond'rin'" ), the acting possibilities have always seemed limited owing to Julie's apparently unconditional submission to Billy's neglect and abuse. In contrast to the traditionally passive interpretation of the character, Sarah Uriarte's Julie knows what she wants from the outset and dares to go after it, even though by the end of the show she has clearly suffered as a result of her attachment to the wrong man. As for Wilson, he imbues Billy with a swaggering air of danger mixed with insecurity and confusion. Throughout, the pair radiates an attraction to each other, and, in general, the production exudes more lust and sensuality than others I have seen. In supporting roles, Boone delivers a sassy comic performance as Carrie, while Sean Palmer portrays Carrie's intended husband Enoch Snow as equal parts endearing and insufferable.
Handkerchief warning: As Aunt Nettie, Rebecca Eichenberger belts out the show's anthem "You'll Never Walk Alone" with such conviction that she'll have you sniffling after the first few notes. But the revelation of the evening turns out to be Dana Stackpole, who plays Louise, Julie and Billy's restless daughter. Stackpole is heartbreaking in the famous ballet sequence at the fairgrounds, while Joseph Woelfel, as her anonymous dance partner, proves a powerful match.