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TIME: Almanac 1995
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TIME Almanac 1995.iso
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1995-02-24
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<text id=94TT0364>
<title>
Apr. 04, 1994: This Carousel Doesn't Go Anywhere
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1994
Apr. 04, 1994 Deep Water
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
THE ARTS & MEDIA, Page 85
Theater
This Carousel Doesn't Go Anywhere
</hdr>
<body>
<p>The season's most anticipated revival tarnishes the reputation
of Broadway's Golden Age
</p>
<p>By William A. Henry III
</p>
<p> For nearly two years a half-century ago, the original version
of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Carousel played across the street
from their original Oklahoma! To most devotees of musical theater,
that era seems like heaven. It is obligatory among the ardent
to deride today's Broadway blockbusters as vastly inferior to
the hits of yesteryear and to cry out, If only they made 'em
like they used to. To me, the Broadway opening last week of
a revival of Carousel prompts the thought: Thank God they don't.
I'd far rather see Miss Saigon for a fifth time, or Les Miserables
for a ninth or even return to The Phantom of the Opera than
ever again sit through the longueurs of Carousel, however pretty
its candy-box score.
</p>
<p> The production comes from London's Royal National Theatre, and
won four Olivier Awards, equivalent to the Tonys. At New York
City's Lincoln Center, the look and style are the same, but
the cast is all American and almost all new, save for Michael
Hayden, 30, a 1992 Juilliard graduate who reprises the leading
role that vaulted him from nowhere to stardom.
</p>
<p> There's little wrong and much beguilingly right with the staging
by Nicholas Hytner, who also mounted the grandiose Miss Saigon
and the brooding The Madness of George III, and who draws on
both styles here. From a leaf-strewn greensward on a hill to
a steepled white church in the twilight distance, from the island
dunes of a clambake to the fairground fantasy of the title,
this production entrancingly conjures iconic places of bygone
mill-town New England with expressionistic verve and cinematic
speed of transition. The actors are adequate, save for irksome
mugging by the chorus, and the singing is mostly fine, with
opera diva Shirley Verrett gloriously belting the score's two
standards, June Is Bustin' Out All Over and You'll Never Walk
Alone. The dances by Sir Kenneth MacMillan, who died during
rehearsals, are bold and lively, although they bring the storytelling
to a halt. The race-blind casting, if historically inaccurate,
does not jar because this is clearly a fable.
</p>
<p> What is wrong with Carousel is Carousel. The book is a mess.
After a leisurely opening extravaganza, it brings together two
discontented and penniless youths who quit their jobs and upend
their lives to satisfy a moment of sexual curiosity. Within
minutes the pair are rocketed into abiding love. Then the hyperkinetic
narrative is suspended for about 20 minutes to accommodate a
folksy dance number and a comic song in which the only joke
is that a fisherman smells like fish. The action alternates
between aimless divertissement and melodrama for an overblown
three hours. At the end, the central character--a petty crook
named Billy Bigelow (Hayden) who kills himself rather than face
capture by the police--returns to earth as a prospective angel
to save his adolescent daughter from a fate like his own. The
girl's only apparent sin is to dance sexily in a ballet that
implies the loss of her virginity. The father-savior doesn't
say anything meaningful to his child. He just leaves a star
that presumably symbolizes religious faith. The daughter is
thereupon declared magically transformed, with no more evidence
of her new goodness than of her old badness.
</p>
<p> Carousel sentimentalizes the redemptive power of parenthood
for Billy, a pettish, self-pitying idler and punk whom Hayden
plays with an early-Brando sneer. Becoming a father may not
make an abusive husband saintly; it often just gives him a new
victim to pummel. A compelling actor, Hayden is not enough of
a singer--he loses his way rhythmically and sounds faint in
the score's one modernist number, the anthemic Soliloquy ("my
boy Bill"), which ends the first act. Sally Murphy is too bland
to evoke sympathy as Billy's doormat of a wife, who can't see
she's better off without him until after he's dead.
</p>
<p> The music in Carousel is lovely but corny. Anyway, the essence
of a book musical is the book. Hammerstein's protege Stephen
Sondheim has said even the best musicals have a life of a few
decades. Carousel is proof: it's stale.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>