Theatre in Review: Escape to Margaritaville (Marquis Theatre)

	Paul Alexander Nolan and cast. Photo: Matthew Murphy

Tully, the hero of Escape to Margaritaville, is an entertainer at a Caribbean resort (island not named); he's an easygoing good-time guy who specializes in weeklong flings with female guests looking for some fun in the sun -- with benefits. Then he meets Rachel, an environmental scientist who initially resists his sleepy-eyed charms. Instead, she is interested in the makeup of the island's dirt. "Well," she asks Tully, "what would you say if I told you that I could maybe engineer a genetically modified potato grown in volcanic soil rich with magnesium and iron that might generate enough clean power to run your refrigerator?" In what passes for wit in Greg Garcia and Mike O'Malley's book, Tully replies, "I'd probably say, 'What have you been smoking, and do you have any left?'"

If that exchange makes you laugh out loud, this is the show for you. If not, you may need a pitcher of margaritas before visiting the Marquis Theatre. So airheaded that it makes Mamma Mia! seem like The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny, Escape to Margaritaville is designed strictly as a package tour for Jimmy Buffett fans -- aka Parrotheads -- who want to grab a little island time without paying the airfare. They can rest assured that the song list retains all their favorites, among them "Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes," "Son of a Son of a Sailor," and, of course, "Margaritaville." Buffett and his many collaborators -- the full lineup of songwriters is dizzyingly long -- always had a knack for the sort of pop tune that was destined to be summer hit, but, even with some retooling and new additions, the score can't bear the twin burdens of storytelling and character illumination. Not that there is much story to tell: This is basically a greatest hits collection in search of a musical.

The book, such as it is, combines tired gags with a trio of pro forma romances: While Rachel and Tully are making eyes at each other, Tammy, Rachel's best friend, struggles not to fall for Brick, a bartender who is clearly her soulmate, since they both love puns and fatty food. (Tammy is days away from marrying the annoying Chadd, who neglects her emotionally, even as he nags her about her weight.) Meanwhile, Marley, the resort's lady owner, bickers with J.D., the dissipated old coot who is permanently parked on a barstool at poolside. The story manages to pack in an erupting volcano, psychedelic drug flashbacks, buried treasure, and a forced plane-landing in the Ohio River, all without ever seeming urgent or amusing. And the jokes will have you wondering exactly what the writers were smoking: Tully asks the initially standoffish Rachel, "Is there a boyfriend at home I'm competing with?" Tammy replies, "Nope. She works so much the only relationship she has lives in her nightstand and they break up every time it runs out of batteries." Later, Tully says to Rachel, "Something is growing inside of me, and because of the week we just shared, even if you haven't realized it, I suspect it's growing in you as well." Rachel, panicked, says, "Oh my god, I knew it. Please tell me it's something I can cure with penicillin." In the show's lamest running gag, one of the guests is a Latin guy named Jesús, pronounced "Hay-sus," and you can be sure that, time and again, J.D. will call him "Jee-zus," adding, "That's mighty Christian of you."

The actors try hard to keep the beach ball in the air, but it's work, work, work. Paul Alexander Nolan, slow-drawling his lines as a half-smile spreads across his face, is appealing as Tully, and he has a nice way with a Buffett ballad. It's not his fault that the show's principal love story is DOA, nor can one blame the attractive, big-voiced Alison Luff: She does her best to enliven the role of Rachel, who with her devotion to scientific fact and her plainspoken manner, seems to have been airlifted in from another show altogether. It doesn't help that she is faced, ridiculously, with having to choose between lazing on the beach with Tully or solving climate change. Hmm: Which you would pick?

Lisa Howard is criminally underused as Tammy, and the character's doormat qualities make her hard to like. Watching the egregious Chadd (Ian Michael Stuart, playing a perfect oaf) treat her like a little girl, it's hard not to think that there's something terribly wrong with her. In one of the more humiliating moments on Broadway right now, Tammy arrives at her rehearsal dinner to discover that Chadd has arranged her own personal chafing dish, filled with vegan pasta. Thanks to the production's flying system, she takes to the air, soaring across the stage to land in front of a pile of burgers, all while singing "Cheeseburger in Paradise." Well, a lady must eat, and, anyway, Howard plays nicely with Eric Petersen as Brick, although he must labor with another awful running gag, involving his drug-fueled flashbacks of twenty-two life insurance agents who, he believes, died in a volcanic incident. (No, I am not going to explain this.) Rema Webb brings some sass to the role of the irascible Marley, but Don Sparks wrestles with inferior material as J.D., especially an Act II revelation about his past that is supposed to make the audience tear up while helping to bring Tully and Rachel together.

Christopher Ashley's staging is brisk and efficient, hustling through the book scenes to get to the next song as fast as decency will allow. As is often the case with jukebox musicals, the songs feel shoehorned into the action, many of them present simply because the fans expect to hear them. Oddly, more than a few seem to fade in and out without making much of an impact. Kelly Devine's choreography is fairly negligible, except for a bizarre Act II sequence in which Brick, having another LSD vision, sees those dead insurance agents performing a lively, if entirely out-of-place, tap sequence. (Seeing Escape to Margaritaville and SpongeBob SquarePants, which also breaks out the tap shoes late in Act II, I must ask: Is it a rule that every new musical must feature old-style Broadway hoofing, no matter how inappropriate? Does the Broadway League impose a tariff on those who fail to do so? All I can say is, I'm glad they didn't get the memo at The Band's Visit.)

Ashley has seen to it that the production has a professional gloss. Walt Spangler's sets -- including a bamboo-adorned hotel patio, a jungle glen lush with greenery, a cutaway airplane interior, and a dark Cincinnati bar dominated by electric beer signs -- are attractive, and the lighting designer, Howell Binkley, has plenty of colorful sunshine at his command. Paul Tazewell's costumes are, appropriately, long on shorts and eye-searing tropical shirts. Brian Ronan's sound design is a little louder than I would like, but he has to contend with the fans in the audience, who sing along with the cast. (During "Margaritaville," when Sparks sings the lyric "Looking for my long-lost shaker of salt," the fans shout back, "Salt! Salt! Salt!", thrusting their hands into the air each time.)

Which, in the end, is why none of this may matter. At the performance I attended, the audience was loaded with men and women of a certain age, decked out in Hawaiian shirts -- many with leis around their necks -- most of them clutching what was clearly not their first tropical drink of the evening. They seemed to be having a whale of a time, from the first guitar chord to the beach-ball drop that brings the evening to a close. If enough Parrotheads can be summoned to the Marquis, Escape to Margaritaville might have a decent run. If you decide to go, however -- even to a matinee performance -- I recommend at least one serving of the title beverage. After all, it's five o'clock somewhere. -- David Barbour