On any given day, the musical I consider my all-time favorite will either be Sweeney Todd or Guys & Dolls ... unless that day is the day after I've seen a production of Guys & Dolls, in which case it's the clear winner. Heaven knows there are plenty of entertaining, tune-filled warhorses from Broadway's golden era, but do any of them have the effervescent fizz and pop of composer/lyricist Frank Loesser's 1950 triumph, a beautifully constructed musical comedy so funny and clever and sweet that it can keep you happy and humming for hours - like, 100 hours - after it ends?
The Timber Lake Playhouse's 'Til Death Do Us Part: Late Nite Catechism 3 opened this past Thursday, and it seems a little rude to describe just how staggeringly hysterical the performance was, because unless you were one of the evening's many other cackling patrons, there's literally no way you'll be seeing the same production I did. In theatre, of course, no two shows are ever exactly alike. Yet this one-woman comedy may be a special case in that regard, because not only is 'Til Death Do Us Part dependent on audience interaction, but several audience members are so directly involved in the proceedings - and so spectacularly, riotously well-involved - that they could make legitimate claims for co-star billing, and maybe even deserved paychecks. (As it stands, they're instead treated to lovely parting gifts.)
On Thursday, I attended the Timber Lake Playhouse musical The Spitfire Grill, and caught another presentation of the piece - this time at the Richmond Hill Barn Theatre - the very next night. I'm actually somewhat disappointed that no additional area venues staged the show over the weekend, because even after two outstanding Spitfire Grills in a row, I would've happily made time for more.
As befits a musical based on the biblical book of Genesis, Children of Eden starts In the Beginning. Yet in discussing the Timber Lake Playhouse's current presentation of the show, it seems more appropriate to start at the end, because the curtain call - arriving more than two-and-a-half hours after the opener - appears to be one of the few sequences in which the performers understand exactly what's expected of them.
When attending a detective spoof with the title Red Herring, you probably shouldn't expect its storyline(s) to hold together in a way that makes much sense, and Michael Hollinger's farcical noir seems particularly all-over-the-map; somehow, in 130 minutes, the play's author squeezes in adultery, bigamy, murder, treason, neutron-bomb testing, the McCarthy hearings, a show-tune-loving Soviet, and a top-secret microfilm stashed in a block of Velveeta.
The Timber Lake Playhouse's current production of Sweet Charity features the single most electrifying, exhilarating dance number I've ever seen on a stage. I'm well aware of what a sweeping and potentially exaggerated generalization that statement is, and almost hesitate in making it, because it's the type of effusive praise that can easily make theatre-goers (to say nothing of theatre participants) roll their eyes and say, "Oh, come on." But I'll say it again: Sweet Charity features the single most electrifying, exhilarating dance number I've ever seen on a stage. And I'm betting that fellow patrons at Thursday's performance might easily feel the same way.
Peppy, cheeky, and somewhat unsatisfying - though in ways that are rarely the fault of its current Timber Lake Playhouse presentation - Flight of the Lawnchair Man boasts a friendly spirit, a number of witty and weird diversions, and a brisk running time, clocking in (with the intermission) at a mere 105 minutes. Yet for all of its strengths, and unlike its determined hero, this musical comedy never really takes off. Director Chuck Smith's production is ingeniously designed and energetically performed, but the show itself is a little bit You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, a little bit The Wedding Singer, and a little bit Bat Boy, and about as stylistically awkward as that description implies.
After an extended silent-movie montage - one featuring clips from F.W. Murnau's horror classic Nosferatu - and the appearance of the show's title, the Timber Lake Playhouse's Sunset Boulevard opens with screenwriter Joe Gillis (Brandon Ford) at the bottom of a swimming pool. Granted, the water, like that montage, is a multimedia projection, and Gillis is standing (and singing) rather than floating face-down. But the Act I prelude is still enough like the opening to Billy Wilder's beloved Hollywood noir that fans of the Sunset Boulevard movie will likely smile in recognition and appreciation, and we're returned to this scene of a future crime at the start of the musical's second act.
As the title character in the Timber Lake Playhouse's Buddy: The Buddy Holly Story, Chris Froseth is a spectacularly confident dork. With his slender frame, curly mop of brown hair, and iconic horn-rimmed glasses, he nails the physicality to perfection, and his cascading drawl and thrilling rock vocals are oftentimes uncannily similar to Holly's. Yet what's even more impressive is how completely the actor seems to capture the singer/songwriter's gawky yet fantastically determined spirit.
Some 20 minutes before the finale to the Timber Lake Playhouse's Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, you'll finally hear something that you hadn't heard once during the musical's first two hours: a legitimately sincere number. Granted, this romantic ballad is being sung by a practiced con man, and the object of his affection is a young woman from whom he's trying to swindle 50 grand, and he's only been hitting on her to prevent his rival from scoring first. But, hey, sincerity is sincerity, and besides, it's the only heartfelt moment you're gonna get.Subscribe & Listen to Reader Podcasts
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