Theatre in Review: Titanique (St. James Theatre)

I first saw Titanique during its early run in a tiny theatre located under a Chelsea grocery store; it was sloppy, scrappy, slapdash, and already a hit with its well-oiled gay target audience. (The laugh quotient, I assume, increased with each margarita.) Since then, it has sailed around the world, docking at Off Broadway's Daryl Roth Theatre and making stops in Australia, Buenos Aires, and the West End, where, God help us, it won an Olivier Award.

Having arrived on Broadway, it remains a scattershot spoof -- its relationship to sophisticated musical theatre is essentially that of a mocktail to a dry martini -- but to its credit, its round-the-world voyage has resulted in a much slicker, tighter show. It is, at least, good for a few laughs, if you are tolerant or have a buzz on. There's a lot of talent on the St. James stage working hard to deliver a good time, and sometimes they do.

A sketch-comedy treatment of James Cameron's blockbuster film crossed with a parody of Celine Dion's Vegas act, Titanique positions the Canadian diva as narrator of the saga of Jack, Rose, and the "unsinkable" ship, set to a playlist of Dion's greatest hits. (In a way, it's an apt burlesque of the entire jukebox musical genre, in which the songs are often only distantly related to the story unfolding onstage.) Here's a good barometer of the humor on offer: Cal, Rose's sneering, wealthy intended, urges the ship's captain to speed up the ship's Atlantic passage because "I've got a hair appointment in Soho on Tuesday. They book way out." Others: When told that the ship only has a few lifeboats, somebody cracks, "What is this? Norwegian Cruise Lines?" One character is introduced as a "seaman," leading to the comment, "Everybody loves seamen. Not lesbians."

Also included are gags about the musical Chicago, the HBO series Euphoria, The Music Man, The Gilded Age, Lenny Kravitz (just because, I guess), and those gay institutions Grindr, and The White Party. Some are funny; others are name-checking exercises. Acknowledging the St. James Theatre's storied past, bits are built around cardboard cutouts of Carol Channing, Patti LuPone, and Nicole Scherzinger. ("Shut up, Patti," somebody yells, as if spoofing LuPone's hectoring style were a freshly minted idea.) The loose script accommodates up-to-the-minute insertions. The performance I attended included a bit about Pink hosting this year's Tony Awards, news announced only hours earlier. (It was followed by a swipe at erstwhile Tony host Ariana DeBost. It's that kind of show.)

What keeps Titanique floating about the Plimsoll Line most of the time is the cast, all of whom carry on as if appearing in a four-star smash. Star (and co-author) Marla Mindelle delivers an amusingly self-adoring Celine Dion, emerging from a bag lady's rags to slay us with her fabulousness. Wielding the all-purpose description "kooky, crazy" and deploying a French-Canadian accent that turns "love" into "lerve," she is at her funniest when trying to horn in on the action, coming between two lovers in mid-ballad. In the roles created by Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, Mindelle has a fine pair of playmates. As Jack, an aspiring artist whose masterpieces look like a four-year-old's depiction of a cat, Constantine Rousouli (another co-author) effortlessly sends up his innocent, salt-of-the-earth hero. Melissa Barrera's Rose belts her numbers and bravely endures any number of transparently fake slaps during melodramatic confrontations with her mother and Cal.

John Riddle is making a career out of playing bad boyfriends at the St. James, having been the villainous Hans in Frozen; as Cal, he flares his nostrils and looks appalled with elan. Deborah Cox is luxury casting defined as unsinkable Molly Brown, her vocal gymnastics crying out for a real musical to showcase her talents. Frankie Grande has a good time as "Victor Garber," once again the ship's architect, belting "I Drove All Night" while steering the ship to disaster. Layton Williams shows plenty of star power as Peabo Bryson, who shows up to reprise "Beauty and the Beast" with Celine, and as Tina Turner, aka the "Iceberg Bitch," who somehow sinks the ship with her rendition of "River Deep, Mountain High" (Tina is "the original singer of my best cover," Celine notes.) As Rose's mercenary mother, Jim Parsons essays a drag role, appearing in a hostess gown and sporting a pair of stuffed birds on his head; for his labors, he gets a fart joke and a reference to The Big Bang Theory.

Tye Blue, the director and yet another co-author -- yes, this tattered joke book required three writers -- keeps the mood buoyant, although he can't keep the last twenty minutes from dragging. The major upgrade is in the design department, beginning with the set by Gabriel Hainer Evansohn and Grace Laubacher for Iron Bloom Creative Production, a two-level cross between a ship's deck and nightclub stage, featuring three inverted V-shaped trusses, plenty of color-changing LED bars, and illuminated stairs. ("The set of The Voice," cracks Celine and she's not far off.) Lighting designer Paige Seber lines the proscenium with moving units, creating the illusion that the theatre is pulsing with activity. Alejo Vietti's costumes have their moments, especially Tina Turner's ice-queen ensemble and Celine's glittering gold gown, aided by Charles G. LaPointe's hair and wig designs. Lawrence Schober's sound design is loud yet clear, reliably delivering the likes of "Because You Loved Me," "Where Does My Heart Beat Now," and "My Heart Will Go On."

The most interesting thing about Titanique is that it represents the latest step in the Oh, Mary-ification of Broadway, the mainstreaming of a gay comic sensibility that, in my youth, wasn't allowed above Fourteenth Street. If Titanique were on Oh, Mary's level, we'd have a new smash hit musical in town. It's not a disaster, but it could use some ballast in its hull. Don't ask much of it, and you may enjoy yourself. --David Barbour