Cabaret
Book by Joe Masteroff
Based on the play by John Van Druten and stories by Christopher Isherwood
Music by John Kander
Lyrics by Fred Ebb
Directed by Molly Smith
Arena Stage
Through Oct. 29
Book by Joe Masteroff
Based on the play by John Van Druten and stories by Christopher Isherwood
Music by John Kander
Lyrics by Fred Ebb
Directed by Molly Smith
Arena Stage
Through Oct. 29
In polite society, one doesn’t discuss sex, politics, or religion. Cabaret is not polite society, thank heavens, more the id to The Sound of Music’s superego, and Arena stage delights in its dour decadence in a wonderfully sensuous, politically charged production featuring a superb cast.
American journalist Clifford Bradshaw (Glenn Seven Allen) arrives in Berlin in the early 1930’s. On the train, he meets the mysterious Ernst Ludwig (J. Fred Shiffman), w
ho—with Cliff’s help—plays keep-away from the customs officer with a briefcase Ernst later explains to Cliff contains funds smuggled from Paris for a worthy cause. In gratitude, Ernst introduces Cliff to Freulein Schneider (Dorothy Stanley), who rents him a room in her boarding house. Ernst also brings Cliff on New Year’s Eve to the Kit Kat Club, the hottest cabaret in town, where he encounters the club’s star—and free-spirited force of nature—Sally Bowles (Meg Gillentine), who is English in Joe Masteroff’s script but American in this rendition. A subplot involves Fraulein Schneider’s on-and-off romance with, and brief engagement to, the kind Jewish grocer Herr Schultz (Walter Charles). The prostitute Fraulein Kost (Sherri L. Edelen) and her steady stream of sailor clients provide for some running gags, but her friction with Fraulein Schneider soon takes on a more sinister cast, as does Herr Ludwig’s secretive political activities.
All this revolves around—and is reflected in—the riotous and raunchy numbers performed at the Kit Kat, showcasing not just Sally and a cadre of scantily clad chorus girls, boys, and yet to be determined, but the boisterous Master of Ceremonies (Brad Oscar).
In such an iconic show, an unfair but inevitable test is whether performances measure up to or bypass the memory of star turns like those of Liza Minelli and Joel Grey in the 1972 Bob Fosse film version—or, for Broadway denizens, perhaps, Natasha Richardson and Alan Cumming in the recent 1998 Tony-winning revival. The principals director Molly Smith has assembled here pass with flying colors. Better yet, they pass the hard way, not by trying to out-Liza Liza or out-Joel Joel, but by making the roles quite their own.
Allen’s Cliff conveys a wide-eyed awe frothed with a coy delight at the Kit Kat’s sexual anarchy and Sally’s omnivorous, though jaded, energy. His Dudley Do-Right looks and casually confident singing complete the endearing portrayal. Brad Oscar, from his first fiery moments, sidesteps Joel Gray’s seductive slither, and adapts the Emcee role to his own more boisterous, vivacious bearing, not to mention the kind of huge singing and speaking voice that would serve well to organize a crowd in the event of an emergency.
And Gillentine doesn’t bother with the hungry-eyed Liza schtick, fab as that was for Liza herself. Gillentine’s Sally is more sad, soused, seductive girl next door gone astringently astray. Yes, beneath her reckless promiscuity she does have a heart of gold, but it’s lax, laden, and saturated like an old olive in a glass of gin. It’s not that she’s only alive, as the maudlin cliché goes, on the stage. She’s alive and kind, in her unerringly manipulative way, most of the time. But in Gillentine’s interpretation, Sally’s only happy on the stage, never mind Cliff’s nasty knocks on her career—and we’re pretty damn happy, too, when she’s up there. Not only is Gillentine a superb singer—controlled while not distractingly mannered, rawly emotional without distorting her numbers’ shape and momentum—she also moves with a delectable abandon. She is, no doubt, sexy and knows what to thrust where and how to shake when. But it’s more than that. Her shoulders and back speak their own languid language of unrequited longings, ambling ambitions, and unspeakable pleasures, both captured and imagined.
Dorothy Stanley and Walter Charles bring a lovely, brittle tenderness to their tentative world-embattled romance. And filling out the cast are the fine ensemble players who bring snappy, surreal life to antic showstoppers like the manic “Money Song” and wistful lyricism to their bittersweet turnabout on the Nazi “Tomorrow Belongs to Me.”
George Fulginiti-Shakar’s music direction and the Kit Kat band are marvelous. Their timing is unobtrusively Velcroed to the singer’s phrasing
, and their tone ranges fetchingly from circus crisp to reedy tender. Anne Patterson has devised a clever minimalistic set enhanced by elevating platforms. The opening curtain and industrial-strength all-purpose “piano” are ingenious touches. Austin Sanderson’s sensational costuming is smart flapper casual, with bursts of outré haute for the club production numbers. And David Neumann’s innovative choreography shines in “The Money Song,” “If You Could See Her,” and “Cabaret.” I’d like to have seen more tight and contrasted lighting from designer Joel Moritz to help intensify, particularly, the love scenes and the framing episodes on the train. And about that train—you’ll see what I mean—I have mixed feelings about a technical gimmick that’s sort of fun initially, but also unintentionally and weirdly belittling at a crucial moment later on.
More broadly, while Smith’s direction is sure-handed and the pace brisk without veering—as it well could—into mindlessly frenetic, her political underscoring, not just on stage but in the entrance hall and the program notes, is a little much. She’s careful to write in her notes that Bush does not equal Hitler nor do his minions equal the Nazis. But the production pretty much says he does and they do. OK, so the shoe search on the train might just be au courant, but those passing Abu Ghraib photo references when Cliff is beat up are just plain heavy-handed. It’s not a question of whether or not one agrees with her viewpoint, but whether the material should be trusted to speak for itself—and it should.
On the other hand, while slinky outfits and raucous tunes are the face and voice of this show, politics surely comprise its heart. Because of Cliff’s sexual, Sally’s relational, and Fraulein Schneider’s political ambivalence, there is no traditional love story to Cabaret, never mind hesitant odes to romance and domesticity like “Perfectly Marvelous” and “Why Should I Wake Up?” and “Maybe This Time.” The show’s real love story is about the love for political, sexual, emotional, and artistic freedoms, and it’s a compelling one that Smith was wise to schedule at this delicate ideological moment.
Any doubt as to its timeliness was quickly dispelled on my ride home. On the radio, Bill Frist was explaining why—even against the judgment of stalwart conservatives in his own party—he wanted to bolster Bush’s tweaks to the Geneva Conventions to ensure that American methods of torture adhere to the letter of at least someone’s laws.
Food for thought, old chum.
American journalist Clifford Bradshaw (Glenn Seven Allen) arrives in Berlin in the early 1930’s. On the train, he meets the mysterious Ernst Ludwig (J. Fred Shiffman), w
ho—with Cliff’s help—plays keep-away from the customs officer with a briefcase Ernst later explains to Cliff contains funds smuggled from Paris for a worthy cause. In gratitude, Ernst introduces Cliff to Freulein Schneider (Dorothy Stanley), who rents him a room in her boarding house. Ernst also brings Cliff on New Year’s Eve to the Kit Kat Club, the hottest cabaret in town, where he encounters the club’s star—and free-spirited force of nature—Sally Bowles (Meg Gillentine), who is English in Joe Masteroff’s script but American in this rendition. A subplot involves Fraulein Schneider’s on-and-off romance with, and brief engagement to, the kind Jewish grocer Herr Schultz (Walter Charles). The prostitute Fraulein Kost (Sherri L. Edelen) and her steady stream of sailor clients provide for some running gags, but her friction with Fraulein Schneider soon takes on a more sinister cast, as does Herr Ludwig’s secretive political activities.All this revolves around—and is reflected in—the riotous and raunchy numbers performed at the Kit Kat, showcasing not just Sally and a cadre of scantily clad chorus girls, boys, and yet to be determined, but the boisterous Master of Ceremonies (Brad Oscar).
In such an iconic show, an unfair but inevitable test is whether performances measure up to or bypass the memory of star turns like those of Liza Minelli and Joel Grey in the 1972 Bob Fosse film version—or, for Broadway denizens, perhaps, Natasha Richardson and Alan Cumming in the recent 1998 Tony-winning revival. The principals director Molly Smith has assembled here pass with flying colors. Better yet, they pass the hard way, not by trying to out-Liza Liza or out-Joel Joel, but by making the roles quite their own.
Allen’s Cliff conveys a wide-eyed awe frothed with a coy delight at the Kit Kat’s sexual anarchy and Sally’s omnivorous, though jaded, energy. His Dudley Do-Right looks and casually confident singing complete the endearing portrayal. Brad Oscar, from his first fiery moments, sidesteps Joel Gray’s seductive slither, and adapts the Emcee role to his own more boisterous, vivacious bearing, not to mention the kind of huge singing and speaking voice that would serve well to organize a crowd in the event of an emergency.
And Gillentine doesn’t bother with the hungry-eyed Liza schtick, fab as that was for Liza herself. Gillentine’s Sally is more sad, soused, seductive girl next door gone astringently astray. Yes, beneath her reckless promiscuity she does have a heart of gold, but it’s lax, laden, and saturated like an old olive in a glass of gin. It’s not that she’s only alive, as the maudlin cliché goes, on the stage. She’s alive and kind, in her unerringly manipulative way, most of the time. But in Gillentine’s interpretation, Sally’s only happy on the stage, never mind Cliff’s nasty knocks on her career—and we’re pretty damn happy, too, when she’s up there. Not only is Gillentine a superb singer—controlled while not distractingly mannered, rawly emotional without distorting her numbers’ shape and momentum—she also moves with a delectable abandon. She is, no doubt, sexy and knows what to thrust where and how to shake when. But it’s more than that. Her shoulders and back speak their own languid language of unrequited longings, ambling ambitions, and unspeakable pleasures, both captured and imagined.
Dorothy Stanley and Walter Charles bring a lovely, brittle tenderness to their tentative world-embattled romance. And filling out the cast are the fine ensemble players who bring snappy, surreal life to antic showstoppers like the manic “Money Song” and wistful lyricism to their bittersweet turnabout on the Nazi “Tomorrow Belongs to Me.”
George Fulginiti-Shakar’s music direction and the Kit Kat band are marvelous. Their timing is unobtrusively Velcroed to the singer’s phrasing
, and their tone ranges fetchingly from circus crisp to reedy tender. Anne Patterson has devised a clever minimalistic set enhanced by elevating platforms. The opening curtain and industrial-strength all-purpose “piano” are ingenious touches. Austin Sanderson’s sensational costuming is smart flapper casual, with bursts of outré haute for the club production numbers. And David Neumann’s innovative choreography shines in “The Money Song,” “If You Could See Her,” and “Cabaret.” I’d like to have seen more tight and contrasted lighting from designer Joel Moritz to help intensify, particularly, the love scenes and the framing episodes on the train. And about that train—you’ll see what I mean—I have mixed feelings about a technical gimmick that’s sort of fun initially, but also unintentionally and weirdly belittling at a crucial moment later on.More broadly, while Smith’s direction is sure-handed and the pace brisk without veering—as it well could—into mindlessly frenetic, her political underscoring, not just on stage but in the entrance hall and the program notes, is a little much. She’s careful to write in her notes that Bush does not equal Hitler nor do his minions equal the Nazis. But the production pretty much says he does and they do. OK, so the shoe search on the train might just be au courant, but those passing Abu Ghraib photo references when Cliff is beat up are just plain heavy-handed. It’s not a question of whether or not one agrees with her viewpoint, but whether the material should be trusted to speak for itself—and it should.
On the other hand, while slinky outfits and raucous tunes are the face and voice of this show, politics surely comprise its heart. Because of Cliff’s sexual, Sally’s relational, and Fraulein Schneider’s political ambivalence, there is no traditional love story to Cabaret, never mind hesitant odes to romance and domesticity like “Perfectly Marvelous” and “Why Should I Wake Up?” and “Maybe This Time.” The show’s real love story is about the love for political, sexual, emotional, and artistic freedoms, and it’s a compelling one that Smith was wise to schedule at this delicate ideological moment.
Any doubt as to its timeliness was quickly dispelled on my ride home. On the radio, Bill Frist was explaining why—even against the judgment of stalwart conservatives in his own party—he wanted to bolster Bush’s tweaks to the Geneva Conventions to ensure that American methods of torture adhere to the letter of at least someone’s laws.
Food for thought, old chum.
-A.C.K.
Photos, by Scott Suchman, courtesy of Arena Stage:
1. (From left to right) Erica Sweany, Julie Burdick, Deanna Harris, Lynn McNutt, Meg Gillentine, Monique L. Midgette, and Hillary Heather Elliott
2. Brad Oscar
3. Glenn Seven Allen and Meg Gillentine
4. Dorothy Stanley and Walter Charles
