Theatre in Review: Stephen Sondheim's Old Friends (Manhattan Theatre Club/Samuel J. Friedman Theatre)The ovations come early and often at the Friedman these nights. The first is ignited by Bernadette Peters and Lea Salonga merely taking the stage, a sure sign that the audience is already wired. Of course, the ladies do not disappoint; they're often in good company, too: This revue of Stephen Sondheim's songs, the last show to bear his fingerprints, has its ups and downs, the latter of which we'll get to in a moment. But the highs are stratospheric: In a season hardly lacking for glitter, Stephen Sondheim's Old Friends offers a double-barreled dose of stardust backed by a cadre of formidable talents, delivering some of the greatest numbers in the musical theatre canon. From her first appearance in Miss Saigon, Salonga has always possessed a singular voice and presence; over the years, however, she has evolved into an irresistible force, her pristine singing matched by superb interpretative skills. The dark musical melodrama Passion may be Sondheim's hardest-to-love show, but, in her rendering, its principal ballad, "Loving You," the cri de coeur of an ailing, voracious spinster, is rendered with heartstopping power and dignity. There's no overemoting; she simply takes direct aim at the song's heart and scores a bull's eye. Nearly unrecognizable as Sweeney Todd's Mrs. Lovett, she wields a mean rolling pin in the blackly comic "The Worst Pies in London." Taking on Gypsy's "Everything's Coming Up Roses" -- even as, three blocks away, Audra McDonald is slaying with it -- Salonga makes it entirely her own, adding intriguing notes of self-doubt to a number usually performed as a steamroller anthem. It's unlikely, I know, but one suddenly wishes she could succeed McDonald as Madam Rose; it might be another performance for the ages. Then there's Peters, so impossibly youthful that she can camp it up as Into the Woods' Red Riding Hood, totting up the lessons learned with running with wolves. (The number, "I Know Things Now," is here intriguingly paired with "Bounce" from an early version of Sondheim's late-career chamber piece Road Show.) Then she gets down to business with A Little Night Music's "Send in the Clowns," bringing the room to a hush by simply turning her head forty-five degrees to signal the pain of a romantic stalemate. For those two or three in the audience not yet reeling, she returns with "Losing My Mind," from Follies. Playing Sally, the mad housewife, in the 2011 revival, she underlined the song with grievance and a hint of a nervous breakdown. Here, apart from a single stunning gesture, shaking her fists helplessly, she makes it a naked statement of loss. Nobody does regret like Peters, and she has few, if any, rivals in turning a ballad into a riveting one-act play. Others in the company have their moments, too. Beth Leavel begins "The Ladies Who Lunch," from Company as an acid social commentary, ending it by washing her hands of the human race, exiting in disgust, a chic little stole slung over her shoulder. It's a brave performer who takes on a number identified with Elaine Stritch and Patti LuPone, but Leavel can take care of herself, thank you, and her version is plenty memorable. Bonnie Langford's take on "I'm Still Here" (from Follies but using some lyrics from a retooled version used in the film Postcards from the Edge) is that of a joyous, defiant survivor itching for the next insurmountable challenge. Jeremy Secomb, in my experience, the most frightening of Sweeney Todds, delivers a perfectly chilling "Old Friends" (Todd's love song to a knife), also partnering with Jacob Dickey, as Todd's chief victim, on a ravishing "Pretty Women." Only a show aimed at the hardcore fans would offer "A Weekend in the Country," the first-act finale of A Little Night Music intact; it's a six-minute opera buffa, a masterpiece in miniature, but unless you know that show, you're likely to be a little baffled. The same is true of West Side Story's "Tonight Quintet," although, like "A Weekend in the Country," it is so stunningly performed that perhaps the lack of context won't matter. A spot of trouble creeps into the comic numbers, which director Matthew Bourne and choreographer Stephen Mear can't resist fancying up with unnecessary bits of business. "The Little Things You Do Together," "Getting Married Today," both from Company, and "Everybody Ought to Have a Maid," from A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, are marred by a facetious, aren't-we-having-fun attitude; really, a straightforward focus on the lyrics would be more than enough. (I did like the moment in "The Little Things" when Leavel lunges in fury at Gavin Lee, whose back is turned, but, with these numbers, less is generally more. This is especially true of the overabundance of songs from Into the Woods, the most overexposed of Sondheim's hits.) Jason Pennycooke's take on "Buddy's Blues," from Follies, is overly busy, with the actor aping the Mandy Patinkin trick of playing Buddy and the two women in his life. (Pennycooke does very well by "Live Alone and Like It," from the film Dick Tracy, however.) The low point is "You Gotta Get a Gimmick," Gypsy's trio for broken-down strippers, in which Peters, Leavel, and Joanna Riding appear to be amusing themselves, not the audience. In contrast, Kate Jennings Grant's bone-dry delivery elevates "The Boy From...," a bit of polysyllabic linguistic madness from the revue The Mad Show featuring a note-perfect Antonio Carlos Jobim parody by Mary Rodgers. (Even when working as a lyricist only, Sondheim traveled first class, collaborating with Rodgers, Leonard Bernstein, and Jule Styne.) Interestingly, the group numbers provide many outstanding moments. "Comedy Tonight," the riotous opening from A Funny Thing... is presented with just the right touch of controlled insanity. "Broadway Baby," from Follies, is amusingly reimagined with a chorus line of determined hopefuls begging for a producer's attention. "Sunday," the first-act finale from Sunday in the Park with George, is every bit as majestic as anyone could want. Surprisingly, "Being Alive," from Company, the pained personal confession of a marriage-averse bachelor, responds to group treatment, proving the evening with an eleven o'clock number to remember. Bourne and producer/deviser Cameron Mackintosh have framed these goods with the elegance they deserve. Matt Kinley's set design, featuring the orchestra onstage, gives George Reeve plenty of room for imagery of city skylines, tangled forests, and Brazilian beaches; a montage of Sondheim through the years is guaranteed to bring tears. Lighting designer Warren Letton provides many muscular architecture-of-beam looks that add to the theatricality of each number. Jill Parker's costumes combine evening wear with well-chosen details that suggest the characters featured in the songs. Mick Potter's excellent sound design is the best I've ever heard in the Friedman, bringing tremendous presence and punch, guaranteeing that every word is intelligible. Almost by their very nature, revues are uneven, but the successes keep coming: Langford, Grant, and Riding detailing a boyfriend's infinite failings in "You Could Drive a Person Crazy," from Company; Salonga and Secombe in Sweeney Todd's bubbling, satanic waltz, "A Little Priest;" Salonga's soaring handling of "Somewhere," from West Side Story; and Lee's interesting reframing of Follies's "Could I Leave You?" as the breakup of a same-sex marriage. It's an imperfect, yet unforgettable, evening, the last will and testament of the leading musical theatre talent of our time. With Friends like these, you're likely to find you haven't a care in the world.-- David Barbour 
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