Theatre in Review: About Time (Marjorie S. Deane Theatre) Richard Maltby, Jr. and David Shire are determined to see their fans through to the end of life -- with showtunes. Count me among the admirers: I was in college when their first revue, Starting Here, Starting Now, opened. To my young ears, it seemed the last word in breezy sophistication; even today, it holds up quite nicely, thank you. I was in my mid-thirties when they premiered Closer Than Ever, which, to my mind, features some of the best theatre songs ever written. Starting Here, Starting Now had plenty to say about being young and finding a place in the world; in true 1970s fashion, it was packed with statements of self-assertion and self-discovery. Closer Than Ever is slightly sadder but wiser, taking note of unraveled relationships and missed opportunities while stubbornly insisting the best is yet to come. And here we are in 2026: Maltby and Shire, each approaching ninety, are still at it, rolling out a collection of September songs. At their best, the offerings in About Time are flecked with wit, tinged with regret, and alive with wonder at the revelations found in one's personal third act. In "Little Susan Lawrence," Sally Wilfert amusingly recalls her grade-school first love, mortifyingly named "Buzz Babcock," adding, with sadness, that she never again felt so strongly about anyone. In "No One Will Know," delivered by the great Lynne Wintersteller, an everyday matron quietly cops to the moment of illicit passion that she keeps locked up in her heart. "Just a House," delicately delivered by Allyson Kaye Daniel, is a poignant character sketch about a widow leaving, for the last time, the home that defined so much of her life. Some of the up-tempo numbers have their moments, too. With Wilfert in the lead, ("All I Want to Do is Go) Dancing" is a lively tribute to the long-gone days of disco. Eddie Korbich presides over "Faster," about one of the great ironies of later life: "That just when you get extra time/The time you have gains speed/That thing I can't master/Moves faster and faster each day." "Manhattan Skyline" pays tribute to all the young comers who arrive in the city determined to make it, only to discover that fame is fleeting: "One unfriendly reviewer/Like that the offers get fewer/You're not the novelty you were/There's a taste for somebody newer." What pros they are: Shire's music continues to tingle with nervous energy, and Maltby's perfectly rhymed lyrics are imprinted on the melodies in a tailored fit; in numbers like those listed above, the work of these near-nonagenarians sounds younger than springtime. Some of the comic material, however, feels left over from nightclub shows of decades past. A number about the tendency to leave one's keys and glasses in the strangest places, i.e., the freezer, feels tired after a few lines, as does a trio for middle-aged men embracing their motorbike fantasies. An interesting piece about an actress struggling in midlife features a bizarre stopover at a matinee of the musical Fun Home: "Singing lesbians! That'd cheer anyone up," she declares in a line that would've gotten a big laugh in 1976. Similarly, a sly offering about anti-Semitism is structured about the travails of writing the TV series The West Wing, leaving one to ponder how much that medium has changed since 2008. Maltby and Shire's revues have always been pulled from various sources, including special material and songs from also-ran and never-were musicals; if most of them are gems, one or two stick out oddly. Chief among them is "Kensington Kenny," about a middle-aged gay man who unearths his late grandfather's music hall routine, which, he belatedly realizes, is a coded coming-out statement. And "What Do I Tell the Children?", a searing denunciation of institutionalized corruption, is a tad strident in these circumstances. It may well be that the issues affecting the AARP set -- failing health, declining cognition, loss of loved ones -- don't benefit from typical musical revue treatment. Or perhaps, in shying away from the gathering darkness, the creators rely on too many truisms. Still, the cast is filled with pros, their talents unwithered by time's passage. Aside from those already mentioned, Daniel Jenkins shines in a clever ode to jazz ("The kids today don't know what they are missing/They think that rap's what music's always been/They think that writing lyrics is defined by/How many 'motherfuckers' they fit in.") Darius de Haas makes a touching tribute to the power of art in "And the Singer Sings His Song," and partners with Daniel in a charming bit about a romance founded on the shared love of movie music. Maltby's staging, aided by Marcia Milgrom Dodge's choreography, is a tad insistent at times, and the uncredited sound could be taken down a notch or two. But the rest of the design -- including Tracy Christensen's costumes and Mitchell Fenton's lighting (James Morgan served as scenic consultant) -- is solid, and, at the twin pianos, Deniz Cordell and Annie Pasqua provide sparkling accompaniment. And if a number doesn't please, wait a second; something better is coming soon. Maltby and Shire are one of the oddest couples in show business. They've been writing book musicals since 1959 with little or no success, but their revues, often constructed out of their flops' remains, are rightfully acclaimed. Individually, they have enjoyed tremendous success: Shire as an Academy Award-winning film composer and Maltby as a director and lyricist for Ain't Misbehavin', Miss Saigon, and Fosse, among others. Aside from John Kander and Fred Ebb, how many teams have made magic for so long? Even with a couple of lapses, About Time shows them still operating at full tilt, which is possibly the most cheerful news we've had all year. --David Barbour 
|
