Bob already blogged about this while I was still sleeping (he claims it was twelve hours of rest, but I insist it was only ten), but rest assured (ba dum dum!) that I thought it first...
Last night we attended the critically acclaimed (and soon to transfer to the West End) Menier Chocolate Factory production of Sunday In The Park With George. For those in the know, Sunday ranks as my favorite musical of all time. It's a flawed little gem, but a gem nonetheless, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see it.
The design of this production was flawless. The space is intimate; a 100-seat theater, the stage only 12-15 deep but at least twice as wide. The physical set design was simple with a plain, white wall and two doors on either side of the stage. It had a very art gallery feel to it, highly appropriate for this show. And the stunning use of projections was so breathtaking that I have no words to describe it. I can see why the critics went nuts over the concept.
What happened in front of those projections, on the other hand, is where I started to take issue with the reviews. The ensemble work was a delight. The actress playing Dot/Marie was, for the most part, a joy. She chewed a little too much scenery in the second act. Her Southern accent was so thick as Marie that when we see her again as Dot and she speaks in her natural British accent my first thought was, "Oh, that's so fake." Acting! But I was willing to forgive her in the end...mostly because she was on a low-carb diet compared to the gluttonous feast by the actor who played George.
Holy overacting, Sondheim Man! Somebody is already playing the show like they're in a 2,000-seat theater. The people in the front two rows needed to borrow some of the parasols from the cast. He acted at three speeds: quiet observer, carotid-artery popping, and spitting. He lacked the nuanced layers needed to make George a sympathtic and tortured character and instead turned him into a stereotypically broody artist. If I wanted to see that I'd have stayed in New York and gone to a poetry reading at some dark, East Village bar.
But when it's all said and done it's the score that gets me. The evolution of this show's musical themes is nothing short of brilliant, and it will always be my favorite Sondheim score. Music geek that I am, it only takes a few chords to give me goosebumps and make my eyes well up with tears. The reduced orchestrations fit the production beautifully.
I'm not sure how this show will transfer to the West End. A larger venue seems to go against everything this production has created...well, except for George himself. He's just a feather boa and a few divorces shy of being Liza. But still, I'd recommend you go out and see it if you can, if not for the rest of the cast and the brilliant design then for the fact that this show is rarely done and a treat no matter what.
Now, on with the rest of my vacation. Stories of true debauchery and my own overacting will follow as the weekend properly kicks off tonight!
Posted by mak at March 3, 2006 7:14 AM