Skip to main content

Sutton Foster: "The Music Man"

 "The Music Man" is a bit like "Better Call Saul"; it's about a charismatic con man and a series of crimes.


Harold Hill wants success -- but he has a touch of "Slippin Jimmy" in his soul. He offers to teach children music, but he can't read music; he uses a tactic called "the think method." (If you think about the Canon in D, you'll just somehow master it.) This isn't a really satisfying way to live -- and Harold partly understands his situation -- but old habits die hard.

Meanwhile, Harold's antagonist -- his Inspector Javert -- is a tough-minded librarian who is in mourning. She knows who Harold is, but when Harold uses some of his sparkle to brighten the lives of little children in the Town Hall, the antagonist has a hard time imagining how she should proceed.

The Times already described what is puzzling about the current Broadway revival. It seems like Hugh Jackman is afraid to play a con man; he is just sort of quiet and charming, as if he hopes we won't give any thought to what his character is really doing. Meanwhile, Sutton Foster, who does give a real performance, seems badly miscast; she is old enough to be her "brother's" grandma, and her singing voice (which I normally love) seems shrill and irritating when she tries to tackle "My White Knight."

Still, it's interesting to see Sutton Foster losing her footing (because this happens so rarely). I did wonder why the Times neglected to mention the total absence of sexual heat in this version of the show; would it be offensive to point out a lack of chemistry?

I'd like to see a young Audra McDonald as Marian -- or a young Kelli O'Hara in the Marian role. I know that won't happen. At the least, this production took me back to the movie soundtrack -- which is a great choice for a long car ride. (It's like listening to a smart radio play.)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...