Theatre in Review: Lazarus (New York Theatre Workshop)

	Michael C. Hall, Cristin Milioti. Photo: Jan Versweyveld.

In Lazarus, New York Theatre Workshop has its first jukebox musical. It already had its first songbook musical in What's It All About?, a revue of inventively rearranged Burt Bacharach tunes. Lazarus, however, is more ambitious, in that it recycles a number of David Bowie songs, plus four new compositions, in a book musical format. It's rather surprising to see Bowie and his collaborators, playwright Enda Walsh and the white-hot director Ivo van Hove, working the same side of the street as the creators of Mamma Mia! and Rock of Ages; I have a feeling they would be nonplussed to be mentioned in such company. Then again, those shows had identifiable characters and comprehensible plots, which is more than you can say about Lazarus.

The book, by Bowie and Walsh, is taken from Walter Tevis' novel, The Man Who Fell to Earth, which inspired the trippy 1976 Nicolas Roeg film, starring Bowie as Thomas Newton, an alien who comes to Earth in search of water for his planet. To raise money for his return trip, he becomes a technology mogul, but ends up ensnared here, imprisoned for a time and anesthetizing himself with television and booze. Lazarus picks up the story at this point; we see Newton inhabiting a room that -- in Jan Versweyveld's forbiddingly antiseptic design -- contains only a bed (without a headboard), a record turntable (and a few David Bowie albums), and a refrigerator stocked with alcohol. As played by Michael C. Hall, he is the embodiment of clinical depression. "I watch television and drink gin," he says, outlining his activities for the day, adding, for good measure, "I try to locate where I put the Twinkies." He offers a visitor a drink and is told that it is 9:30 -- in the morning. "So late," he murmurs.

There's a video wall on the set, which seems to represent Newton's consciousness and frequently shows images of the blue-haired Mary Lou, his lost love. He is attended to by Elly, his personal assistant, who appears to be going through a nervous breakdown. ("I used to have a sunny personality," she tells her bemused husband. "Now I'm a pool.") He is visited by Michael, an old associate who acts like a cast-off lover, although Michael bristles at the suggestion that he is gay. Then there is Girl, who only Newton can see, probably because she was previously killed -- by Alan Cumming, who, in a bizarre digression, makes a surprise appearance via video wall -- and who, because she is neither living nor dead, is, like Newton, Trapped Between Worlds. And let's not forget the ill-named Valentine, who has an unhealthy obsession with Newton that leads to the killing of various members of the supporting cast. There's a fair amount of bloodshed on stage, but it's one of the oddities of Lazarus that one character, when stabbed, bleeds milk all over the stage.

Basically, the script is a chic, hollow frame designed to set off a playlist of Bowie hits, none of which are especially suited to the story being told, even if they match its grimly downbeat mood. Thus, it's rather jarring to see Cristin Milioti, as Elly, furiously emoting her way through "Changes," which finds her trying to woo Newton. The relatively lighthearted "Absolute Beginners" seems weirdly out of place in this sinister environment. And I may not be the only person who currently associates "Life on Mars" with Jessica Lange's star turn on American Horror Story: Freak Show. And, before you ask, nobody sings "Space Oddity." (I hasten to add that the songs are the principal -- actually the only -- source of pleasure in Lazarus.) As Newton, Hall adopts a permanently wounded expression and sings in a way that, I think, is meant to recall Bowie's signature style. He's not a character; he is a figure of alienation and suffering who exists to be abused or adored by other members of the cast, as the case may be.

As Elly, Milioti is a walking collection of nerve endings, her appearance and line readings positively oozing hysteria, especially when she starts running around in a blue wig in a Vertigo-style attempt at exciting Newton's interest. At one point, clad in the skimpiest of miniskirts and net stockings, she is made to stand in front of the open fridge, halfway bent backwards, looking desperately in need of a shot of Thorazine. Even the best actress will be challenged when given lines like, "I'm going to load the dishwasher and when I return I think we should try and have sexual intercourse," adding, after a beat, "I may need a sandwich first."

Milioti has to do some very heavy lifting, especially in an incomprehensible speech in which she tries to explain her feeling of being possessed by Mary Lou. "I'm dressing in her clothes and she's taking my voice even -- and then I'm wanting him. I want him. And there's no real logic to this love -- not a real love, I know -- but madness only. And yet I don't want my old life back -- 'cause to lose the 'her' that is still here might lose me the possibility of a new life. It's a new life I want." After that, I wanted to say, Honey, so do I.

Michael Esper's Valentine licks his lips and gives creepy Vincent Price-meets-Hannibal Lecter line readings. Sophia Anne Caruso is an intriguing presence as Girl, retaining her self-possession throughout. Charlie Pollock is touching as Michael, whose feeling for Newton leads him to a bad end. The best thing you can say about van Hove's direction is that he has guided his cast toward a unified performing style.

Versweyveld's beige set -- which has two large windows through which we can see the show's band -- is matched by his lighting, which, with its fifty-shades-of-white palette, tends to wash out everything on stage. At times, Hall, clad in tan slacks and shirts, almost blends into the upstage wall. Visual interest is supplied by Tal Yarden's projections, which are seen on the video wall, mapped across the entire set, or on the wall behind the band. Some of them -- scene-setting images of Lower Manhattan or of Mary Lou -- are on point; others, including rapid-fire montages, amount to so much distracting wallpaper. Challenged by a layout that includes a seven-piece band upstage behind a wall, Brian Ronan's sound design manages to be generally intelligible throughout.

It was probably a mistake that Lazarus was developed under such a veil of secrecy. The cast was famously barred from discussing the production, and publicity materials contained little or no information. This may have raised expectations that those involved were planning something highly unusual and ambitious. Whatever one expected of this starry creative team, the morose, often pretentious repurposing of some appealing pop hits from three or four decades past isn't it. Maybe someday Bowie will write a musical; that'll be the day. -- David Barbour