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A CurtainUp Review
Lennon
by Les
Gutman
First, the good news -- over twenty-five of Lennon's songs, including a couple never published and only privately recorded. Stripped of the Beatles catalog, this collection serves as a monument to a man who can arguably be called the poet of an era, and certainly as the balladeer of his own life and times. The assembled cast of nine (about which more later), backed by a band of ten, does justice to the songs. We might as well let the other shoe drop now: Don Scardino's book, no doubt powerfully influenced by Yoko Ono (the "power" being quite literal and well reported in the media), does not do justice to the man. This show is not the train wreck that some have anticipated; it is simply a disappointingly weak, flat-footed, inartful and often amateurish effort. Along the way, one gets glimpses of what this show might have been, but it is not until about halfway through the second act -- when the power of the songs is finally permitted to tell the story -- that the show starts to come into its own. One can forgive Yoko for insisting that Scardino render her version of history, in which everything except her (even the Beatles!) is marginalized in John's life. What one cannot accept is the extent to which Lennon's life has been reduced to a series of "and then I..." bio inserts, some stick figure sketches and sight gags. With the exception perhaps of Jane Greenwood's costumes, almost every element of this show seems to cheapen its subject. And this starts with Scardino's cockamamie idea of having "a community of actors and actresses all play John Lennon". Suffice it to say that none of the brave actors (who unanimously have been seen doing better work) gets very close to portraying Lennon, and that it's not their fault: blame for that must fall to Scardino's anemic book and equally inept direction. It doesn't get much better when they are called on to play other assorted characters; sometimes, it's far worse. The only true standout in this cast is Marcy Harriell, who grabs our attention singing "Woman Is the Nigger of the World" and, unlikely enough, portraying Elton John. The rest of the performances are frankly best forgotten. Lennon also seems a nadir in the work of its creative collaborators. John Arnone's cluttered set and even more cluttered projections are both quite awful. Natasha Katz's lights are pure Vegas. Joe Malone's choreography reaches new heights of predictability. Perhaps most unfortunate, Harold Wheeler's orchestrations not only do too much, they also do it wrong: a show about Lennon is not a time to reimagine his sound. Bobby Aitken's sound design, as it happens, is quite all right. It probably doesn't matter much what we call this show, but for those who care, it's hard to see why it would be characterized a musical. It's a biography with songs. But before anyone needs to debate this, we will likely call it closed. John Lennon no doubt died knowing precisely who he was; this show regrettably has no idea.
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