Sunday, June 21, 2009
A+E, Theater, Reviews

Walk on the ‘Wild’ side

Onstage Atlanta throws one hell of a debauched ‘Party’

BY BERT OSBORNE

Oh, the depravity of it all. Don’t get me wrong: I tend to prefer darker, more substantive musicals to the fluffier variety, but a double dose of "The Wild Party" and "Cabaret" may be pushing it, a one-two punch that nearly leaves me longing for a good old "Annie." (Nearly.) What’s the Great Depression in that show, except an excuse to keep reminding us—that’s right—the sun’ll come out tomorrow? In "Cabaret," set in 1929 Berlin, tomorrow belongs to the Nazis, as some of them sing during its most harrowing number. And if the Jazz Age hedonists in "The Wild Party" weren’t in New York, you could picture them hanging out at the Kit Kat Club over in Germany, recklessly living it up like there is no tomorrow.
 
In a sense, that nonchalant attitude makes "The Wild Party" (book, music and lyrics by Andrew Lippa) a fine fit for Onstage Atlanta. A few summers ago, when certain professional troupes were doing "Steel Magnolias" or whatnot, this avocational company tackled both parts of "Angels in America"—hardly the most stunning productions you’d ever seen, but even so, a nervy endeavor that put to shame those safer, more polished trifles. Although subsequent versions of "Kiss of the Spider Woman," "M. Butterfly" and "Art" might’ve been better designed or executed, they deserved their A’s for effort.
 
Artistic director Barbara Cole Uterhardt’s "Party" comes much closer to balancing its ambitious intentions with its economic constraints. It’s such a lurid orgy of sex and drugs and violence, you wouldn’t want it to seem too flashy. A larger theater could’ve played it as sheer spectacle in a swanky penthouse apartment; this set looks like the sort of dingy cold-water flat that may as well adjoin a bowling alley (which, in fact, Onstage does). There, between sexual trysts and lots of booze and cocaine with friends and strangers, the tortured love affair of Burrs, a vaudeville clown, and Queenie, a nightclub singer, is clearly doomed.
 
The ubiquitous Googie Uterhardt (the director’s husband) is himself a "clown of some renown." After "Tent Meeting" and "Tuesdays With Morrie" earlier this season, his Burrs offers further evidence that he’s among our best dramatic actors, too. As Queenie, Mary Nye Bennett holds her own acting-wise, though she truly registers as a powerful vocalist. And how fitting that the indispensable Marcie Millard’s big song is "The Life of the Party"—as a conniving romantic rival, she’s the cream of the crop elsewhere in the cast. While some other supporting solos falter, the crowd numbers are solidly performed, under Lenae Rose’s musical direction and featuring Anthony Owen’s rousing choreography.
 
The show contradicts Queenie’s motto ("No limits, no boundaries, no compromises"), but its pervading decadence is tangible. Not so in director Freddie Ashley’s Atlanta Lyric staging of "Cabaret" (book by Joe Masteroff, music by John Kander, lyrics by Fred Ebb), which feels more tame than threatening. It supposedly comments on the era’s political climate, but there’s nothing suitably garish or symbolic about scenic designer Drew Monahan’s Kit Kat Club, nor anything very cynical or sinister about Craig Waldrip’s Emcee. When, as a jaded showgirl, Claci Miller finally delivers the title tune, the irony is lost, and it’s just another snappy song (music direction by B.J. Brown).
 
Nicer than it ought to be, Ashley’s "Cabaret" strikes a singular blow with the anthem "Tomorrow Belongs to Me," spotlighting a group of soldiers and gradually expanding the light to reveal their swastikas. Otherwise, the problem with the show isn’t so much a matter of whether the sun’ll come out again, but whether it ever really sets. SP