'Beautiful' and 'A Night with Janis Joplin' on Broadway

What elements do these winning shows have in common? What formula do they follow?

The first rule: Tell the life story of the singer (or singers), highlighting humble beginnings, meteoric rises (against all odds), professional crises, and, above all, personal tragedy.

In the case of Beautiful, writer Douglas McGrath marks the rise of little Carole King (née Klein) from her modest Brooklyn origins (and overbearing mother, another stock feature). The narrative focuses on King’s relationship with Gerry Goffin, with whom she formed a composer/lyricist partnership and rose to heights writing songs for other groups (like The Drifters and The Shirelles) in the Brill Building, headquarters of the music industry. “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” catapults them into early fame, and the rest of the story tells of continued success, marred by marital crisis and ultimate separation.

That leads us to the second rule of a successful ʼ60s musical: Tell the story through the songs. “You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin',” croon The Righteous Brothers (a Barry Mann melody), as the King/Goffin partnership and marriage fall apart. After two children and a world of heartbreak (Goffin proved to be unfaithful and unstable), King leaves him, to the tune of “It’s Too Late” (a song she wrote on her own). Yet she refuses to look back (“You’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face”) and soars ahead to triumph as a solo performer and composer/lyricist. (To date, she has written over 400 songs).

The third rule: Find an actor/singer who can convey the charisma of the original star. That’s a tough one. In the case of Beautiful, the story goes that Jessie Mueller simply walked into auditions one day and wowed them. Though not a King look-alike, Mueller bears a resemblance — the kinky blond hair, the unassuming dress, the hunched posture. Her voice doesn’t have King’s rawness, but Mueller finds her own personal place of pain and passion from which to deliver King’s soulful songs. Ultimately, it’s the personification of King that makes Mueller’s performance so moving — that mixture of awkwardness and vulnerability, combined with a dogged determination and an indomitable spirit. In the final, triumphant 20 minutes of the show, as she discovers that she can soar on her own, she truly is “Beautiful.”

The fourth rule: Evoke the time in which the story takes place. Carole King’s rise, endurance, and perseverance personify the protofeminist spirit of the ʼ60s that ignited the next two decades. A woman songwriter succeeding in the tough music business set the stage for so many to come. “She’s a girl — she sings ‘girl songs,’” says Don Kirshner, the rock music publisher who recognized her talent and supported her work.

A Pearl of great price

A Night With Janis Joplin follows the same formula. The modest beginnings: Joplin came from Port Arthur, Texas, and worked in a coffeehouse. The rise, as told through song: “I’m Gonna Rock My Way to Heaven.” The personal heartbreak: “Piece of My Heart.” Written and directed by Randy Johnson, Joplin’s story is told almost entirely through song. A few pointed lines of narration, however, help tell her tragic story, ending in suicide: “When I’m up on stage is the only time I don’t feel lonely”; “No man has ever satisfied me like an audience”; and “All that really matters are feelings — that’s all songs are.”

As for the casting, Mary Bridget Davies is a wonder, delivering Janis’s immortal howl from deep within, springing from the Joplin crouched singing position with eruptions of uncontrollable energy. Tossing her wild head of hair, dressed in jeans and Indian shirts (or the later silver boots and sequined jackets she favored), she commits to the role with complete abandon. Joplin, Queen of Psychedelic Soul, personifies the ’60s era of sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. With music pounding and strobe lights flashing, she brings that whole joyous, chaotic, rebellious, dangerous decade to life.

There’s a fifth and final rule in making a successful ’60s musical: Conclude with a song that brings down the house. In Beautiful, Carole King belts out “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” and the audience leaps to its feet (not a dry female eye in sight). In Joplin, Janis erupts with “Me and Bobby McGee,” and the entire audience joins in jubilantly: “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. . . .”

Much can be written about the successful formula of Motown (the stirring Berry Gordy story, the Smokey Robinson look-alike, the adorable young Michael Jackson), and the astonishing Jersey Boys (there are now dozens of Frankie Valli clones rotating in the role, waiting in the wings, touring the country). As for an evocation of an era? The Jersey Boys story is the ultimate “hometown-guys-make-the-big-time” American myth. Motown changed African-American history, not to mention the music industry. Above all, there are those immortal songs.

Remembrance of things past

The question is: why all these ’60s musicals, and why now? Is it à la recherche du temps perdu? In a sense, yes. These four musicals are capturing the hearts of an older audience who grew up in the ’60s and are reliving their youth. On the other hand, the songs — expressing a decade of such high hopes (the short-lived JFK administration, the civil rights movement), and at the same time such great tragedy (the Kennedy assassinations, Martin Luther King, the Vietnam and Cambodia wars) — remind us all, of any age, that there is still a need to dream.