Something bad happened in the ’70s. Before the ’70s, we were
futurists. Even if we weren’t terribly progressive, our imaginations were
locked onto the idea of a perfect Tomorrowland. It was a gorgeously designed
art-deco future where dogs could talk and robots were our friends.
Between the open wound of Vietnam and the outrage of Watergate
Americans started looking backward to a time when they were mighty proud of
themselves. The energy crisis, gas lines, rising unemployment, disintegrating
nuclear families, and a crushing recession made the American ’70s a less-than-
comfortable temporal home, and it’s impossible to say whether innocence or
ignorance was the treasure we collectively sought as we turned our attentions
and energies en masse to entertainments set amid the sock-hopping 1950s. Maybe
we just needed to imagine a time when even a tattooed chain-fighting rock-and-
roll rebel could love his girl as much as he did his country. The mass-
mediated Eisenhower era was embraced by culture and counterculture alike.
Sha Na Na was Sid and Nancy’s favorite TV show. American
Graffiti filled the big screen, Happy Days filled the little one,
and on Broadway Grease was the word.
But 29 years after its premiere, poor old Grease appears
toothless and weak. It seems more like an “every-hour-on-the-hour,”
red-white-and-blue amusement park revue than a Broadway musical. In fact, if
Playhouse on the Square moved its current production to Libertyland and
offered complimentary funnel cakes as part of the package, I’d give the
project a rave review. But as it stands, unless you are the kind of person who
gets all misty-eyed gazing upon your vast collection of “rockin'”
Coca-Cola miniatures, there are no two good things to say about it. Don’t even
get me started about how utterly wrong the New Wavey synthesizer is. And what
was the synthesizer set on? Harpsichord? We’ll skip that part.
James Hunter’s scenic design is so thoughtlessly by-the-numbers
it could have easily been rented from Six Flags Over Duluth. It samples the
same easy design tropes — checkerboard patterns being the most common
offender — that have become synonymous with retro burger barns like Johnny
Rockets and Rally’s. The result is a spiritually bankrupt performance space
signifying nothing but bland commercial replication. Where are all the chrome
toasters and round Fiberglass lampshades with blue starburts? Where are Harley
Earl’s once-ubiquitous rocket-inspired designs, plastic slip cushions, and
stores built to look like giant versions of the product they sell? Where are
the things that made ’50s design unique? Sadly enough, not at Playhouse on the
Square.
The single most unsettling design elements are enlarged black-
and-white portraits of Rydell High’s student body. Intended to bring back
memories of teary yearbook-signing parties in the old gymnasium, these creepy
photocopies look more like something lifted directly from the back of a milk
carton. Maybe somebody should scrawl “Stay sweet like you are”
across one in big loopy cursive to avoid any less savory connotations. The
lights (I guess there were lights) do nothing to help the audience follow the
action in this cluttered, patched-together script that has been staged in a
cluttered patched-together fashion.
And where was the grease, anyway? Grease is the anti-
Hair. It’s all about appearances, conformity, and trying to stand out
while fitting in. It’s about taming that mop on your head with a handful of
Brillcream. Yet as top T-bird Danny Zucco, Ben Hensley looked like a poster
boy for the Caucasian fro. Poor T-birds. You all look more like Ramones fans
after a forced scrubbing. Oh, and how about some crew cuts for the nerds?
Shorey Walker, the director and choreographer responsible for
such visual feasts as Chess and The Who’s Tommy, just couldn’t
put all the pieces together this time around. Somehow she missed the simple
fact that Grease is merely a doo-wop retooling of a Sigmund Romberg
operetta. Its charm resonates from the naive sincerity behind all the thinly
written play’s superficial romantic concerns. Winking, ham-fisted acting from
generally stunning performers like Kyle Barnette, Jo Lynne Palmer, Susan
Boyle, and Courtney Ell leads me to believe that much of the blame for this
lumbering, un-funny dud rests with the visiting director.
In an interview with Christopher Blank in The
Commercial Appeal Walker commented on the need to “keep things
real” in order to avoid comparisons to Circuit Playhouse’s campy
Zombie Prom. Priorities were obviously screwed from the git-go. Kitsch
is an inevitable byproduct of any successful ’50s resurrection because kitsch
is deadly serious stuff that wasn’t ever intended to be funny, funky, or
“collectible.” To avoid it is like avoiding the truth, and that’s
the big problem with this show. Nothing is true. It’s a reflection of a
reflection of a snapshot of something that never existed. How about a little
John Hughes-style life-or-death desperation from these teens who want only to
belong somewhere? How about the smell of popcorn at the drive-in movies? How
about something we can latch onto; something that, regardless of when you were
born, triggers emotions you haven’t felt since you carved your girlfriend’s
name in a desk all those years ago? That’s what Grease, another boomer-
made bid for innocence and eternal youth, is for, after all. That’s how you
use it.
Grease is at Playhouse on the Square through August 12th.
