Theatre in Review: Death, Let Me Do My Show (Orpheum Theatre)

One thing is clear from the new show at the Orpheum: Death becomes Rachel Bloom. As someone who doesn't particularly consider myself a fan, I approached Death, Let Me Do My Show with trepidations, none of which were assuaged when, early on, she launched into a cutesy song about a tree that smells like -- well, I don't want to tell you what it smells like. Indeed, I began to steel myself for one of those evenings in which a female comic piles on with crude jokes if only to prove that she can out-gross her male colleagues. David Hull. But that's all I'll say about that. What I can tell you is that having introduced the most unappealing topic in the world, Death, Let Me Do My Show manages to be both harrowing and hilarious; like the best comedy, it is rooted in concerns that are deeply personal yet also hits a universal nerve.

Bloom begins relatively lightly with a riotous set piece about having been farcically deceived into believing she and her husband had lost their dog, the staff of her pet insurance firm bombarded her with sympathy cards. This leads to a priceless routine about the squishy convention of the rainbow bridge, the alleged Valhalla for our four-footed friends. (This sequence isn't the last time that Hana S. Kim's projections compound the fun.) It climaxes with an inspirational anthem with lyrics like "I see a headless kitty cat/And her head grow magically back." It's typical of Bloom's method that the song becomes increasingly macabre, ultimately falling down a rabbit hole on the topic of reincarnation. Thanks to her skittering intelligence, once a bit starts, you can't possibly imagine where it will end.

Soon, Bloom's thoughts turn darker, especially when recounting the experience of giving birth in late March 2020, her anxiety about the runaway virus compounded when her infant daughter ends up in the natal intensive care unit. Happily, the baby survives and comes home, but then Bloom is faced with the death, by COVID, of her writing partner Adam Schlesinger. (Formerly of the band Fountains of Wayne and composer of the musicals Cry-Baby and The Bedwetter, Schlesinger was a major talent whose passing, at 52, shook the theatre community; it was the first sign that we were in for a long, dreadful haul.) Next, an old friend dies of breast cancer. And, in the unkindest cut of all, her psychiatrist drops over. Not unreasonably, she begins to feel like the universe has placed a "Kick me" sign on her back.

All of this could be the basis for one of those my-tragedy-and-how-I-triumphed solo shows that, like the poor, are always with us. Instead, Bloom mines these troubling events for her special brand of graveyard gaiety. An avowed atheist, she finds herself visiting a psychic, trying to get a message from Schlesinger on the Other Side. She is deeply impressed, shaken even, when he appears to send her an idea for a television pilot -- until she realizes the psychic has lifted it from the current season of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. This cues an outrageous number in which she realizes that the most gothic apparition pales before the realization that ghosts don't exist at all. What's a grotesque monster compared to the void?

If you want to find out how Bloom digs herself out of this metaphysical black hole, you'll have to see Death, Let Me Do My Show for yourself, although, as we learn, it isn't helpful to have a second honeymoon at a resort where a couple has recently died of monoxide poisoning. Anyway, you're likely to admire her inventive approach to life's bleakest moments. There's her vision of, eighteen years hence, an entire generation of pandemic babies using their birth experience for calculatedly heart-rending college essays. And there's this admission: "A few years ago we got someone called a business manager to manage our finances because although I've taken classes in experimental clowning, I don't know what a 1099 form is. And if that isn't embarrassing enough, I got a B in experimental clowning." She has merciless fun about being the first new attraction in the Orpheum following the three-decade run of Stomp. And you've got to admire a show that pauses long enough to roast Dear Evan Hansen to a turn.

Some of Bloom's musical numbers, written with various collaborators, belabor their points but Seth Barrish's direction keeps the star on track. Beowulf Boritt has become the go-to designer for this sort of show, once again packing a big surprise into his set. Costume designer Kristin Isola dresses Bloom in a spangly jacket-and-pants combination that looks like it came from Liza Minnelli's closet, making it a prime target for Aaron Copp's lively lighting. The sound design, by Beth Lake and Alex Neumann is ideally clear and natural sounding.

Even for Bloom, who practically defines the term "quirky," Death, Let Me Do My Show is a singular piece, cloaking her humor in surprisingly philosophical, even theological, speculations while putting herself on an existential banana peel. It all comes to a weirdly life-affirming conclusion: Since you can't avoid death, you'd better learn to laugh at it. It's the closest thing to a triumph this crazy world can offer. --David Barbour