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"Pippin' at the Forrest (1st review)
Faux Fosse
LEWIS WHITTINGTON
When Bob Fosse created Pippin in 1972 he was at the height of his directorial powers, and so he created a musical fantasia full of the Fosse’s self-indulgent brand of grease painted metaphysical hokum— sort of Hair meets Camelot by way of Charlemagne’s bloody crusades. The show won a peck of Tonys, and Fosse also picked up an Oscar (for Cabaret) and an Emmy (for Liza with a "Z”) the following year. But if Fosse was as brilliant as we’re told, he surely knew deep down that he didn’t deserve that triple crown, especially for such limp material as Pippin (and certainly not for Liza with all her zzzz’s).
As a fixer of dicey productions, Fosse would obscure the dubious saga of Charlemagne’s son Pippin by masquerading it as a choreographic showcase. In the current revival at the Forrest, the versatile choreographer Mark Dendy tries much the same thing, hyping the dance numbers with foggy flashes. Dendy opens up the Fosse technique to accommodate non-Fosse dancers and he wisely borrows from Cirque du Soleil, livening things up with flash moves and athletic transitions. But no amount of visual gimmicky or even artistry, in 1972 or now, then or now, could save Pippin’s DOA second act.
The sold-out house opening night responded to (a) the show’s built-in Cirquey look, (b) an ad campaign that presents it as sexy and (c) the reputation of composer-lyricist Stephen Schwartz, still riding on the wave of his more recent megahit Wicked. The sardonic clown masques and fetishista medieval garb (studded codpieces, cone-bodices, a Marilyn Manson look-alike and (naturally) medieval mesh stockings on the women and men) are well done. The gyroscopic metal catwalk, an update of the original production’s ribbon-set, is a character in itself and a welcome visual diversion from the show’s cringe-worthy dialogue.
A few fragments of Fosse (past the gloved jazz hands, that is) survive, most limply in the antiwar Crusades ragtime number “Glory.” This was originally danced by Ben Vereen, in his star turn as The Lead Player, a Mephistophelean Jiminy Cricket installed to add desperately needed foundation. Andre Ward handles this part wisely and with such sincere sarcasm that he comes off like a parody of Vereen. He’s an explosive dancer as well, but not a precision dancer of the Fosse school, as his sloppy execution in the “Glory” number illustrated.
As for Stephen Schwartz’s milquetoast score, with its pre-disco treacle pop ballads and peace-love offerings was actually the sound of the times: The opening hits— “Magic to Do” and “Corner of the Sky”— offer as much dimension as this score can muster. Watts, fortunately is a belter as well as a dancer, and he finally lets it rip during “On the Right Track.” Joshua Parks was certainly a vocally appealing Pippin, but seemed physically awkward during the musical numbers.
Shannon Lewis (as Fastrada) and James Royce Edwards (as Lewis) enjoyed themselves as the incestuous/murderous mother- son team. Lewis cut a terrifically droll figure in her slash-dance number, “Spread a little sunshine,” and Edwards did likewise as the hunky dumbbell closet case. Mickey Dolenz, as Charlemagne, seemed preoccupied with staying out of the show’s way, only demonstrating a flicker of life in his little ensemble time-step. Hey, hey he’s still a Monkee.
Among the key numbers, “Glory”— with its slow-mo war tableau— becomes overwrought Fosse, tamped down by Dendy. The hetero-homo-bi-tran-and-pan-sexual hedonism in “Simple Joys” echoes Fosse’s “Aerotica” number in his film All that Jazz— the sort of schtick that even now raises eyebrows in an ostensible “family” revival. In this number Dendy orchestrates an R-rated romp, and the set turns into an erotic circus maximus. A man in front of me dropped his opera glasses. (Pathetically prurient, some of these audiences.) Actually this number only works, choreographically, if its provocations are danced— and on opening night this troupe didn’t get past the mechanics. Call it a case of danceus interruptis, with all that Fosse attitude and not enough jazz to back it up.
To read another review of Pippin, click here.
LEWIS WHITTINGTON
When Bob Fosse created Pippin in 1972 he was at the height of his directorial powers, and so he created a musical fantasia full of the Fosse’s self-indulgent brand of grease painted metaphysical hokum— sort of Hair meets Camelot by way of Charlemagne’s bloody crusades. The show won a peck of Tonys, and Fosse also picked up an Oscar (for Cabaret) and an Emmy (for Liza with a "Z”) the following year. But if Fosse was as brilliant as we’re told, he surely knew deep down that he didn’t deserve that triple crown, especially for such limp material as Pippin (and certainly not for Liza with all her zzzz’s).
As a fixer of dicey productions, Fosse would obscure the dubious saga of Charlemagne’s son Pippin by masquerading it as a choreographic showcase. In the current revival at the Forrest, the versatile choreographer Mark Dendy tries much the same thing, hyping the dance numbers with foggy flashes. Dendy opens up the Fosse technique to accommodate non-Fosse dancers and he wisely borrows from Cirque du Soleil, livening things up with flash moves and athletic transitions. But no amount of visual gimmicky or even artistry, in 1972 or now, then or now, could save Pippin’s DOA second act.
The sold-out house opening night responded to (a) the show’s built-in Cirquey look, (b) an ad campaign that presents it as sexy and (c) the reputation of composer-lyricist Stephen Schwartz, still riding on the wave of his more recent megahit Wicked. The sardonic clown masques and fetishista medieval garb (studded codpieces, cone-bodices, a Marilyn Manson look-alike and (naturally) medieval mesh stockings on the women and men) are well done. The gyroscopic metal catwalk, an update of the original production’s ribbon-set, is a character in itself and a welcome visual diversion from the show’s cringe-worthy dialogue.
A few fragments of Fosse (past the gloved jazz hands, that is) survive, most limply in the antiwar Crusades ragtime number “Glory.” This was originally danced by Ben Vereen, in his star turn as The Lead Player, a Mephistophelean Jiminy Cricket installed to add desperately needed foundation. Andre Ward handles this part wisely and with such sincere sarcasm that he comes off like a parody of Vereen. He’s an explosive dancer as well, but not a precision dancer of the Fosse school, as his sloppy execution in the “Glory” number illustrated.
As for Stephen Schwartz’s milquetoast score, with its pre-disco treacle pop ballads and peace-love offerings was actually the sound of the times: The opening hits— “Magic to Do” and “Corner of the Sky”— offer as much dimension as this score can muster. Watts, fortunately is a belter as well as a dancer, and he finally lets it rip during “On the Right Track.” Joshua Parks was certainly a vocally appealing Pippin, but seemed physically awkward during the musical numbers.
Shannon Lewis (as Fastrada) and James Royce Edwards (as Lewis) enjoyed themselves as the incestuous/murderous mother- son team. Lewis cut a terrifically droll figure in her slash-dance number, “Spread a little sunshine,” and Edwards did likewise as the hunky dumbbell closet case. Mickey Dolenz, as Charlemagne, seemed preoccupied with staying out of the show’s way, only demonstrating a flicker of life in his little ensemble time-step. Hey, hey he’s still a Monkee.
Among the key numbers, “Glory”— with its slow-mo war tableau— becomes overwrought Fosse, tamped down by Dendy. The hetero-homo-bi-tran-and-pan-sexual hedonism in “Simple Joys” echoes Fosse’s “Aerotica” number in his film All that Jazz— the sort of schtick that even now raises eyebrows in an ostensible “family” revival. In this number Dendy orchestrates an R-rated romp, and the set turns into an erotic circus maximus. A man in front of me dropped his opera glasses. (Pathetically prurient, some of these audiences.) Actually this number only works, choreographically, if its provocations are danced— and on opening night this troupe didn’t get past the mechanics. Call it a case of danceus interruptis, with all that Fosse attitude and not enough jazz to back it up.
To read another review of Pippin, click here.
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