Theatre in Review: The Color Purple (Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre)

	Jennifer Hudson, Cynthia Erivo. Photo: Matthew Murphy

The Color Purple on Broadway -- again? Really? Honestly, it hasn't been gone long enough for us to miss it. However, John Doyle, the director who puts musicals on diets, slimming them down into intimate little soirees, has turned his hand to the 2005 musical adaptation of Alice Walker's bestselling novel. (This production comes via London's Menier Chocolate Factory, where it was acclaimed.) Despite its considerable popularity, the original production was a rather purple affair, a button-pushing melodrama, heavy on the uplift. It's the decades-long story of Celie, one of the most put-upon heroines in American literature; she is repeatedly raped by her stepfather, is forcibly separated from the children produced by those violations, and is more or less sold into marriage to the cruel Mister, who treats her as a beast of burden. And that's just the first ten minutes.

Doyle's staging contains many of his familiar mannerisms: a single unit set, the use of the chorus as a nearly constant presence, blocking that ensures that actors cannot look at each other, even when sharing dialogue scenes. (Happily, this time out, the actors don't play musical instruments, a strategy that has become ripe for parody.) Overall, his approach results in a series of pluses and minuses; if this production generally outshines the original, it also puts the musical's weaknesses under a glaring light.

Given the two-dimensional nature of Marsha Norman's book, it's not possible to add much in the way of nuance or character shading; thus, when Mister, whip in hand, stares down the trembling Celie, it's easy to think of Simon Legree. (The story is set in rural Georgia in the 1930s, with side trips to Memphis and Africa.) But when Celie falls for Shug Avery, Mister's sometime lover, the ladies' duet is informed by the presence of Nettie, Celie's long-lost sister; it's an appropriate, even savvy, move, because, in a minute, Shug will reveal to Celie that Mister has for years been hiding Nettie's letters to her. An African interlude is signaled by the appearance of women with baskets and bolts of colorful kente cloth, plus a change in the lighting palette -- a big improvement over the ludicrous sub-Lion King dance interlude in the original production. A scene of war in Africa -- white soldiers burning down native villages -- is powerfully intercut with the account, by Harpo, Mister's son, of the beating of his wife, Sofia, at the hands of a band of white men who don't like Sofia's insolent attitude. The downside of this approach is a certain abstraction, an unwillingness to embrace the characters' flesh-and-blood reality. For example, the affair between Celie and Shug Avery is so antiseptically presented that anyone who hasn't read the book or seen the film might think that they are just unusually good friends.

What Doyle can do nothing about is the score by Brenda Russell, Allee Willis, and Stephen Bray. All three have accomplished pop careers, and their songs, which are often highly pleasant to the ear, almost never rise to the dramatic occasion. The Color Purple is rich with incident -- rapes, beatings, betrayals, revelations, and reunions, but the music never captures the sweep of the narrative; instead, every so often the action stops for a smooth, slow, middle-of-the-road pop number that, in its easy-listening contours, does little to express the characters' profound wounds and deep-seated passions. When Celie and Shug explore their feelings for each other, it should be a profoundly unsettling moment for Celie, who has never known sexual love and is breaking a social taboo to get it. Instead, she and Shug croon "What About Love," an attractive ballad that hasn't an ounce of nerves or passion in it. It isn't until the eleventh hour, in the powerhouse number, "I'm Here," that something happens. Celie, having set herself free from Mister, is being abandoned, at least temporarily, by Shug. Alone, she discovers that her true strength lies in herself, that she can make her way alone. Suddenly, music becomes drama and one gets a glimpse of the power-packed show that The Color Purple might have been.

"I'm Here" is delivered in soul-rattling fashion by Cynthia Erivo, the star of the London production, who here makes a stunning Broadway debut. (In a season filled with breakout star performances, especially in musicals, you can put her up there with the best of them.) Her Celie grows before our eyes; in the early scenes, she is so accustomed to cruelty -- to being constantly told that she is ugly and useless -- that her acquiescence is heartbreaking. Once she realizes that Mister has been lying to her about Nettie, she turns, revealing unexpected strength and depths of rage. She acquires a new maturity in "Miss Celie's Pants," about her thriving clothes-making business. And in "I'm Here," she evolves, in plain view, into a complex, fully adult woman. Her work alone is probably reason enough for this revival.

Erivo is a little hamstrung, however, by the Shug Avery of Jennifer Hudson. The latter's vocal talents are thrilling; the two make ecstatic sounds together in "What About Love?" But Hudson's acting lacks the sexual spark and native rebelliousness that makes her such a compelling figure to the other characters. Celie's affair with Shug is meant to provide the jolt of passion that puts her on the path to self-realization, but their chemistry fizzles here. Danielle Brooks, of Orange is the New Black, is a plus-size package of sass as Sofia, her right hand trembling in fury before balling up into a fist, ready to plant a haymaker on the nearest offending lady or gentleman. Isaiah Johnson is as good as anyone can be as Mister, who is the personification of evil, until he becomes a saint. Kyle Scatliffe, an imposing Enjolras in Les Misérables a couple of seasons back, shows considerable range as the foolish, feckless Harpo. Joaquina Kalukango, who has impressed in the plays Hurt Village and Our Lady of Kibeho, brings real stature to the underwritten role of Nettie. Doyle makes especially good use of a trio of church ladies -- Carrie Compere, Bre Jackson, and Rema Webb -- who serve as a judgmental Greek chorus, snippily commenting on Celie's misadventures.

Doyle's set, a wooden platform dominated by a series of narrow, towering wood walls dotted with chairs, provides a reasonably suitable environment. (The lower chairs can be detached and used as needed in certain scenes.) Jane Cox's lighting caresses the set's many textures, providing wonderfully clear sunlight washes and alluring, deeply saturated looks for the African sequence. Ann Hould-Ward's costumes, especially for the chorus make strong contrasts between Shug's flamboyant, colorful wardrobe and the faded day dresses worn by the ladies in Celie's town. And when Celie starts making '40s-style pants-and-blouse combinations, the results are sleek and brightly colored. Gregory Clarke's sound, aided by Joseph Joubert and Catherine Jayes' orchestrations -- achieves a nearly perfect transparency. (This is one of the rare times when a smaller orchestration improves on the original.)

The Color Purple arrives at a conclusion so determinedly full of healing that it frankly beggars belief. Celie's journey from abject near-slavery to a life of power, money, family, romance, and personal contentment seems rooted in inspirational religious tracts rather than serious literature. (In this case, the religion is of self-affirmation rather than belief in God.) Audiences appear hungry to believe that all wounds can be healed, that no tragedy is deep enough to mark one forever. These are appealing notions, even if there is little evidence for them in life. Credit Doyle for selling The Color Purple more honestly than his predecessors, but, to my eyes, the goods being sold are still a little bit shopworn. -- David Barbour