Theatre in Review: The Music Man (Winter Garden Theatre)

	Photo: Julieta Cervantes

It has been a roller-coaster ride for everyone on Broadway recently, but few have endured as much whiplash as the cast and crew of The Music Man. A pandemic delay, the departure of the scandal-ridden producer Scott Rudin, and previews made chaotic by the omicron variant are only a few of their challenges; then came the distinctly mixed reviews. You've got to wonder how they keep smiling at the Winter Garden, night after night. Well, there's a broken heart for every LED on Broadway and consolation can be found in the box office receipts of a smash hit.

And it's always good to see The Music Man, one of the greatest musicals of Broadway's golden age. An affectionately satirical portrait of turn-of-the-last-century Midwest, its humor is worthy of James Thurber. Meredith Willson's distinctive, highly original score is a grand parade of patter songs, marches, ballads, and barbershop quartets. And Jerry Zaks' starry, splashy production fills every inch of the stage. A good time is all but guaranteed -- if you don't mind a pair of questionably cast stars and some unwanted textural tampering.

As the world knows, The Music Man is about a con artist who swoops into a small Iowa town, selling the locals on the creation of a boys' band, never mind that he can't read a note of music. Cast as the title character is this production's raison d'être, Hugh Jackman, which brings us to the Robert Preston problem. Preston created the role of Harold Hill, going from second-tier film leading man to Broadway legend overnight; his unforgettable performance, preserved in the widely available film, has long cast a shadow over such would-be successors as Dick Van Dyke and Bob Gunton. When Craig Bierko starred in the 2000 revival, he was criticized by many for doing a Preston imitation. You can't win.

The secret to Preston's success? He was a character man starring in a musical. Gifted with songs that suited his limited vocal range (often arising seamlessly out of the dialogue), he was the gritty center of the stylized action. There was nothing spangly or smiley, nothing musical comedy about him. This approach freed up everyone else to take part in high-stepping dances and moonstruck ballads; he was the catalytic agent that made the musical happen. His deft underplaying leant a dose of realism to Hill's romance with Marian, the fiercely independent, if slightly past-it and socially isolated town librarian (Barbara Cook on Broadway and Shirley Jones in the film).

Jackman, on the other hand, is an ardent suitor of the audience. This is obvious from his first entrance when, in response to a thundering ovation, he faces front, soaking up the adoration for as long as it lasts. His Harold Hill is a salesman, all right, but his customers are the paying patrons; he delivers each line with a wink and a nod, eyeing us to make sure we're having fun. He's playing Hugh Jackman playing Harold Hill, and the character is only a formality. Consider "The Sadder-But-Wiser Girl," Harold's tribute to ladies of reduced virtue. It's a brilliant little piece, constructed of run-on sentences and wiseacre observations, set to a slouching ragtime vamp. Here, it's staged a vaudeville routine right out of Chicago, directly to the audience, in front of the curtain, with a hard spotlight. It's not the only case in which characterization and honest humor are sacrificed for easy applause.

Even more bemusing is the casting of Sutton Foster as Marian. A canny actress with a powerful belt and nimble dance skills, she has her moments here, especially in the early scenes when smartly fending off Harold's advances. But she isn't a lyric soprano in the line of Cook, Jones, and Rebecca Luker, who starred in 2000; in some numbers, the keys have been adjusted for her, reducing their effectiveness. Most strangely, her ballad, "My White Knight," is heard in an earlier version, abandoned by Willson, with a herky-jerky arrangement that spoils the effect. The song is a poignant revelation of Marian's quiet yearning for "a man who is not ashamed of a few nice things." Thanks to the overhaul, it is an explosion of bad temper. Foster plays Marian as chilly and tough, not a woman of sensibility and refinement; you suspect that the local gentry, who shun her, might have a point.

Foster and Jackman are so busy strutting their singing and dancing skills that one waits an alarmingly long time for something to happen between Harold and Marian. Usually, the key event is the end of the first act: Marian has information that proves Harold a fraud, but, in "Wells Fargo Wagon," she sees her cripplingly shy little brother Winthrop (a winning Benjamin Pajak) transformed with excitement at the idea of joining the band. It's a curveball she didn't see coming, and the curtain falls on Harold and Marian staring at each other, both stunned and a little uncomfortable with what they see. It's a fleeting moment, but it's the basis for everything that happens in the second act. Here, it passes without notice.

If this romance-averse approach is damaging, the supporting cast provides plenty of joy. Jefferson Mays, looking like a balloon about to burst, is priceless as blowhard Mayor Shinn. Marie Mullen, filled with fun and a drop of vinegar, charms as Marian's mischievous mother. Phillip Boykin, Nicholas Ward, Daniel Torres, and Eddie Korbich whip up close harmonies smooth enough to serve at an ice cream social. As Eulalie MacKecknie Shinn, the town's first lady and social dictator, Jayne Houdyshell is a riotously august presence, whether appearing, patriotically, as a torch-wielding Columbia or, in a tribute to the dance, sporting a glittering golden sheath and matching headdress that makes her look like Theda Bara's elderly aunt. (The lovely and amusing period creations are the handiwork of Santo Loquasto.)

Oddly, Shuler Hensley doesn't quite land as Marcellus, Harold's kooky confederate, possibly because his big number, "Shipoopi" has been submitted to a moral makeover, with new lyrics by Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman. It's a pastiche of a popular song of the era, designed to get the kids in the cast dancing. But such lyrics as "Well, a woman who'll kiss on the very first date/Is usually a hussy/And a woman who'll kiss on the second time out/Is anything but fussy," have been supplanted with "Well, a fella who goes on his first date/Is usually shy and fretful/And a fella who tries to get more than a kiss/Will end the night regretful." Such carefully applied fig leaves are only mildly irritating, but they also point to an underlying anxiety about the work as written.

Still, there are plenty of pleasures, especially when the gorgeous ensemble launches into "76 Trombones" or "Iowa Stubborn." (Every song fits perfectly into the show's overall pattern; nobody ever had his knack for pulling music out of everyday conversation; the astonishing opener, "Rock Island," an argument set to the rhythm of a train engine, is without peer.) Warren Carlyle works up some intricately choreographed chaos in "Marian the Librarian" and there's a barnburner of a finale, with everyone in marching gear. Aside from a forbidding show curtain that resembles an exterior barn wall, Loquasto's scenic design provides a series of beguiling Grant Wood-style backdrops. The lighting of Brian MacDevitt and sound design of Scott Lehrer are as crisp and clear as anyone could wish. And, as the show reaches its climax, it works its magic; even Jackman and Foster belatedly fall under its spell. First-class revivals of this marvelous piece don't come around too often. If this Music Man offers sparkle without warmth, proficiency without much underlying emotion, I still wouldn't have missed it. --David Barbour