| Lolita My Love at the York | |
| Posted by: lordofspeech 11:51 am EST 03/02/19 | |
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| So worthwhile. So intricately and cleverly directed. The opening number, staged with Humbert (Robert Sella, urbane, elegant, mastering a massive role in what is said to have been only ten days of rehearsal) walking through the audience toward the lovely, sultry image of Lola in her jeans, downline centerstage, (Caitlin Cohn, melodic, enchanting, challenging, brashly real) promised much. The songs were haunting, but certainly slight, Bacharach-y rather than reminiscent of the Lane or Loewe lushnesses. And that could be, could have been, right. I'm not personally sure I love the novel Lolita. I love that Nabokov dared to look eloquently and with some admiration at the ache of Humbert Humbert. And I remember how wonderfully characterized Lolita is (and Sue Lyon and this girl both captured something of it)...her perverse joy in power over men and yet her very limited venality and her innocence about sex and sexuality. But this version took the point of view, I thought, that was not as frighteningly sympathetic to Humbert as might have been truly stunning. (Burton was Lerner's first choice for the original role). However, what a magnificent adventure. What a crew of amazing actors. The performance of Jessica Tyler Wright in the Dorothy Loudon/Shelley Winters role was quite fine....but it is disturbing that such a character was seen largely from the point of view of the man who disdains her and uses her. Her one big number is the prettiest song in the show, but....it's unpleasant to see her be such a dupe. Shelley Winters was so often successful at letting her audiences both identify and yet be deeply annoyed by her characters. But with this one, in this version, it was hard to feel guiltless in enjoying her being made fun of. But...again...how professional and how elegantly crafted was this piece. George Abud as Claire Quilty, channeling Groucho Marx and therefore perhaps the closest in tone to Nabokov's insistently aesthetic disregard for convention and morality, was just plain EXCELLENT. I cannot believe he only had 10 days rehearsal. Well...any of them. So good they all were. It doesn't work. No. But there were moments of thrillingly bold un-p.c. eroticism. Not prurient. But erotic. And beautiful. And then there was the aspiration to be beyond shocking, which sometimes worked and sometimes didn't. Wow. And I may be wrong about Nabokov's novel's intent, and I am willing to be corrected. And, truly, not enough story HAPPENS for a musical. SPOILER: The abrupt death at the end of Act One and the success and then failure of the central relationship don't make for a full meal. But, then, neither does Madame Bovary. And, too, anyone expecting a post-Me-Too apologia for Nabokov or Humbert or Lerner will be disappointed. There's a tiny bit of that, but there's bravery and integrity involved here too. |
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