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'Being Alive' at PTC (2nd review)
Dan Rottenberg
Thinking too far outside the box
DAN ROTTENBERG
What, I ask you, could be more uplifting than a musical revue that melds the songs of Stephen Sondheim to the works of William Shakespeare, wrapped up in a soul/rock sensibility and performed by an energetic all-black cast?
OK, OK— you’d prefer a revue that melds the arias of Giuseppe Verdi to the screenplays of Woody Allen, wrapped up in a reggae/salsa beat and performed by Inuit Eskimos. But Billy Porter had to work fast, so you’ll have to settle for Being Alive.
Say this much for Porter: The man thinks outside the box. His attempt to reassemble Sondheim songs into a musical rendition of Shakespeare’s Seven Ages of Man is bold, original and ambitious. As an academic exercise— say, a thesis for a master’s degree in theater arts— Being Alive is downright brilliant. But as an evening of theater it’s excruciating to sit through. It's the work of a man who knows and loves the theater a little too much, and maybe ought to get outside and take a walk around the block once in a while.
In a matter of 90 minutes, Porter manages to establish that (a) Stephen Sondheim is no Shakespeare, and (b) all those Sondheim songs you thought you loved lose their edge when they’re lifted from the context of Sondheim’s own shows. Nor does it help when Sondheim’s mostly discordant and ironic music is homogenized through a rhythm-and-blues processor that makes most of it sound alike. Add to the mix a cast saddled with generic, nameless roles, and you have the theatrical equivalent of a perfect storm.
Matters aren’t helped when the first sight that greets the audience is eight perky actor/singers with microphone wires extending from their faces. This becomes especially awkward midway through the proceedings when the script calls for two characters to kiss. The new Suzanne Roberts Theatre is intimate and presumably acoustically perfect. Why is this annoying artificial enhancement necessary in a supposedly state-of-the-art house?
In the program notes, Porter remarks that Being Alive was inspired by his love of Sondheim and his frustration that “there aren’t many black folks in Sondheim shows.” Let’s see. First came 244 years of slavery, then another hundred years of racial segregation, and now Being Alive. Is there no end to this people’s suffering?
To read a response, click here.
To read another review by Steve Cohen, click here.
DAN ROTTENBERG
What, I ask you, could be more uplifting than a musical revue that melds the songs of Stephen Sondheim to the works of William Shakespeare, wrapped up in a soul/rock sensibility and performed by an energetic all-black cast?
OK, OK— you’d prefer a revue that melds the arias of Giuseppe Verdi to the screenplays of Woody Allen, wrapped up in a reggae/salsa beat and performed by Inuit Eskimos. But Billy Porter had to work fast, so you’ll have to settle for Being Alive.
Say this much for Porter: The man thinks outside the box. His attempt to reassemble Sondheim songs into a musical rendition of Shakespeare’s Seven Ages of Man is bold, original and ambitious. As an academic exercise— say, a thesis for a master’s degree in theater arts— Being Alive is downright brilliant. But as an evening of theater it’s excruciating to sit through. It's the work of a man who knows and loves the theater a little too much, and maybe ought to get outside and take a walk around the block once in a while.
In a matter of 90 minutes, Porter manages to establish that (a) Stephen Sondheim is no Shakespeare, and (b) all those Sondheim songs you thought you loved lose their edge when they’re lifted from the context of Sondheim’s own shows. Nor does it help when Sondheim’s mostly discordant and ironic music is homogenized through a rhythm-and-blues processor that makes most of it sound alike. Add to the mix a cast saddled with generic, nameless roles, and you have the theatrical equivalent of a perfect storm.
Matters aren’t helped when the first sight that greets the audience is eight perky actor/singers with microphone wires extending from their faces. This becomes especially awkward midway through the proceedings when the script calls for two characters to kiss. The new Suzanne Roberts Theatre is intimate and presumably acoustically perfect. Why is this annoying artificial enhancement necessary in a supposedly state-of-the-art house?
In the program notes, Porter remarks that Being Alive was inspired by his love of Sondheim and his frustration that “there aren’t many black folks in Sondheim shows.” Let’s see. First came 244 years of slavery, then another hundred years of racial segregation, and now Being Alive. Is there no end to this people’s suffering?
To read a response, click here.
To read another review by Steve Cohen, click here.
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