GYPSY []
Shubert Theatre, 225 W. 44th St., between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. (212) 239-6200.
—–
THINGS ain’t what they used to be, and frankly, when you’ve been hanging around the theater as long as I have, you’ll remember that they never were.
I had heard dire things about the Sam Mendes revival of “Gypsy” with Bernadette Peters, which last night opened at the Shubert Theatre.
But how bad can any revival of this great classic be?
You have Jule Styne’s ear-catching, heart-warming songs; Stephen Sondheim’s mind-tingling lyrics; Arthur Laurent’s super-intelligent (if badly shaped) book; and solid chunks and slices of Jerome Robbins’ slick choreography.
Granted, you don’t have Ethel Merman – the role of Mama Rose was wrapped ’round her very vocal cords and fit her every wrinkle like skin.
But Merman’s dead, and without her, subsequent productions of “Gypsy” have edged downhill.
It was time for a change. Classic musicals can’t just repeat themselves like indigestion. The only question about a new approach is how valid and entertaining it is.
Enter Peters. Petite and pretty, she’s clearly no battle ax-diva in the Merman mode, and it was possibly risky and obviously controversial to cast her.
Yet Peters sings with enormous character and appeal, and acts with total conviction, though her powerhouse finale may be slightly low on wattage.
Her Rose may not have the indestructible guts of the others, but she has more heartbreak.
And while this Rose runs further afield from the real and monstrous stage mother of stripper Gypsy Rose Lee and actress June Havoc, upon which the story is based, she melds into the show better.
In a Broadway musical, irony can prove stronger than iron.
And “Gypsy” is Broadway at its brassiest and most self-referential – showbiz as showbiz, heartbreak and triumph, ashes and diamonds, and all those fine things that make true-blue Broadway queens go weak in the knees.
Mendes has concentrated both on the concept of theater as a way of life – keeping the backstage working mechanism of the musical omnipresent, with vestigial sets deliberately plunked down on a bare stage – and the acting of the drama therein.
While he and choreographer Jerry Mitchell haven’t quite captured the manic satiric edge of Robbins’ relentless kiddie ballets (think Shirley Temple on speed), their strippers number, “You Gotta Get a Gimmick,” is fast, cute and funny.
Their staging of the finale – much helped by Anthony Ward’s wild scenic concept, with Broadway bathed in light – is marvelous.
Most of the performances are exceptionally good. If the intelligent Tammy Blanchard seems too pallid for Louise and her butterfly transformation into stripper heaven, at least John Dossett – rumpled, ruffled and rangy – is perfect as Rose’s lover/manager Herbie.
David Burtka is a whimsically rough Tulsa, dancing the original Robbins routine with easy charm, and the strippers with a gimmick – Heather Lee, Kate Buddeke and Julie Halston – prove grotesquely, show-stoppingly wondrous.
Mendes’ take on “Gypsy” isn’t your usual gypsy camp, but it is, more important, a solid winner.