Theatre in Review: The Sabbath Girl (Penguin Rep Theatre at 59E59)Because musicals so often water down their source materials, it's pleasant to report on a show that does the opposite. With The Sabbath Girl, music, it seems, was the missing ingredient: In 2020, Penguin Rep staged Cary Gitter's amiable, predictable comedy about an ambitious gallerist and an Orthodox knish merchant on the bumpy road to love. The playwright put over this oddball pairing with a certain charm, but the overall result was lackadaisical and implausible. Now, teaming up with composer and co-lyricist Neil Berg, Gitter has retooled it into a winning evening, using music to minimize most (if not all) of the original's weaknesses. It's funny, friendly, and filled with nice people; as some of its characters might say, it's haimish. As before, the meet-cute moment comes when Angie, a Jersey girl turned art dealer, is approached by new neighbor Seth, a refugee from his stultifying Riverdale community following the collapse of his all-but-arranged marriage. The immediate problem: It's a hot Friday evening and he needs a non-Jew to activate his air-conditioner, a forbidden act once the sun goes down. Instantly, a spark is struck, leaving The Sabbath Girl to pose the question: Can a nice Orthodox boy find happiness with the fetching Shabbos goy next door? At first, the prospect seems unlikely: Angie has sunk everything into her downtown gallery and the bills are coming due; she needs a blockbuster show, pronto, to avoid ruinous debt. She's also a magnet for brilliant but selfish men, so dating is the last thing on her mind. Seth is caught between worlds, still observant but fed up with living in a religious fishbowl. (His divorce has made him an object of scandal, although the young ladies at shul thrill to his spurious bad-boy reputation.) Self-exiled to Manhattan, he keeps to himself, making modest attempts at updating the family business. A lover of literature -- growing up, he devoured the works of Saul Bellow and Philip Roth behind his parents' backs -- he also writes short stories. But where the play struggled to make a case for the inevitability of this unorthodox love affair, the musical smooths things over, carefully tracking Angie and Seth's growing attraction. The songs accomplish what straight-up dialogue couldn't quite manage. The amusing "Off the Roof" features Angie coaching Seth on how to (rather violently) shake off the sorrows of the past. "The Knish Song" charmingly details Seth's plans to attract the foodie crowd with new flavors like pineapple and poblano pepper. In "I Was Lost Tonight," both might-be lovers confront their very real doubts, giving us time to consider the hurdles separating them. Then again, a smartly conceived date montage shows them gradually drawing closer, making an oddly complementary match. Then again, it's easy to root for Angie and Seth when they're portrayed by such attractive newcomers. Max Wolkowitz pairs an easy, understated humor with a powerful voice, convincing us of Seth's basic decency and soul. Crucially, he makes the most of "The World He'd Never Seen," which probes Seth's lifelong yearning for something beyond the constrained life he was born into. The role of Angie comes with a massive built-in debit (see the next paragraph), but Marilyn Caserta steers right past it, partnering nimbly with Wolkowitz and convincing us that she is, by degrees and against her better judgment, falling in love. Surrendering to her heart's demands in the eleven o'clock number "Sabbath, the Sun, and Love," Caserta persuasively makes Angie's borderline-Talmudic argument for the primacy of sexual love. It's too bad that the musical retains the weakest aspect of its predecessor, namely the tedious subplot in which Angie is chased by Blake, an allegedly hip California artist looking to make a New York debut. If Blake brought some actual triangular tension to the proceedings, he'd earn his place onstage; instead, he's a cut-and-paste caricature with a "chic" suit seemingly filched from MC Hammer's closet and a pair of sunglasses seemingly glued to his face. It's bad enough that we're expected to believe he's a major talent; when Angie warms to his cheesy overtures, we seriously doubt her judgment. This is nothing against Rory Max Kaplan, who does everything the role demands, but this narrative thread is an unforced error that could (and should) have been fixed. Brightening things up considerably, however, is Lauren Singerman as Seth's buttinski sister, outfitted with a Medusa-like stare and a polite manner that leaves icicles on Angie. (Singerman, who created the role in the original play, plays down Racher's most grating qualities, having fun with her nonstop matchmaking plans for Seth.) Diana DiMarzio brings plenty of warmth and more than a few laughs as Angie's grandmother, who figures in a touching twist just before the finale; she also adds some emotional heft with the evocative "Roseland," recalling the night, many decades earlier, when she met her husband-to-be at the famous midtown ballroom. Director Joe Brancato gets points for smart casting and bright pacing, but his stewardship of the production's design isn't all it could be. The set, by Christopher and Justin Swader, dominated by a white brick wall containing two revolves, is efficient but not as striking or original as one has come to expect from this talented team. Jamie Roderick's brash, colorful lighting and Kwamina Biney's overamplified sound threaten to swamp this modest enterprise. Aside from that ludicrous outfit for Blake, Gregory Gale's costumes are solid. Still, this is the sort of bright, breezy charmer that every summer season should produce. To be sure, nobody involved wants to deal with the more complicated questions such an affair might call up, including the possibility of conversion or how to raise the kids. But never mind: The Sabbath Girl is content to get Angie and Seth to the declaration-of-love point, with any potential problems tabled for another day. And, surprisingly, that seems just about right. It's the very definition of light entertainment. --David Barbour 
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