Theatre in Review: Goddess (The Public Theater)

	Amber Iman. Photo: Joan Marcus

Goddess has cycled through many writers' hands, and I fear it shows. When the musical was first announced at Berkeley Repertory Theatre in the summer of 2022, it had a book by Jocelyn Bioh, with additional material by Mkhululi Z. Mabija. By the time it had arrived on the Public Theatre's schedule (in a press release issued last November), Bioh was listed as the sole author. In March, she "stepped away" from the production, with director Saheem Ali, who conceived the show, taking over as book writer, with additional material from James Ijames. To be sure, the new show has touching and exhilarating moments, an unusual Kenyan setting, and a score that intriguingly blends many musical styles. But its book is a hash of mythological fantasy, politics, romance, and dysfunctional family drama, with a handful of life-is-a-cabaret production numbers thrown in. The two lead characters of Goddess suffer from identity crises. So does Goddess.

The title figure, Nadira, aka Marimba, initially appears to be a knockout nightclub singer. In reality, she is the daughter of Watamaraka, goddess of evil. Raised to become the deity of war, Marimba balks at her destiny and is imprisoned by her angry, imperious mother. She escapes her mythological realm, ending up in modern-day Mombasa, where, as Nadira, she is the lead act at the Moto Moto Club, a louche jazz hangout with a clientele drawn from all walks of life. (For reasons too complicated to go into, she is, at the risk of grave peril, pretty much confined to the Moto Moto Club.)

Having grown up in the world of the gods, Nadira knows nothing of human love. Then she meets Omari, son of the local governor, who has been rushed home from his studies in New York to replace his ailing father in the next election. This is an awkward situation for all, since Omari, a closet saxophonist, is a fixture at the Moto Moto Club, which his father has condemned as a "cave of sin" and is actively working to shut down. (Also waiting in the wings is Omari's arranged marriage to Cheche, a nice, highly efficient young woman who acts as his campaign manager.) As per musical theatre tradition, it's love at first sight for Nadira and Omari. But there's that whole goddess-mortal problem, which comes into high relief when Madongo, who owns the Moto Moto Club, makes an aggressive pass at Nadira and gets dragged off to hell by Watamaraka's henchmen.

A lot happens in Goddess and most of it never gets the attention it needs. The book consistently makes the sort of high-minded points -- pluralism and diversity are virtues; one must be true to oneself -- with which no one in the audience will disagree. But the characters remain distressingly vague. Nadira is a blank slate with a gorgeous voice, a recluse who emerges only to entertain at the club and make eyes at Omari. If anything, Omari is even more shadowy. We never learn what he has been studying in New York, although, in a prime virtue-signaling moment, we learn that he participated in a sit-in to save "a famous building in Harlem." The show struggles to convince us that he is torn between his dreams and duty, but how has he lived a double life, earning a reputation as a musician, without his loved ones finding out? Aside from his father's determination to shut down the Moto Moto Club, which sometimes seems to be the only issue in local politics, we never learn what his family's political dynasty stands for. Cheche, who harbors ambitions of her own, announces, "I have ideas about how to make this country better!" But what that means remains unsaid.

If the juxtaposition of mythological elements and contemporary politics feels uneasy, the show shifts tones wildly. The death of Madongo closes out the first act on a note of pure horror, but Act II begins with a bizarrely jaunty, up-tempo number, "Fate of Madongo," which seemingly plays this dire event for laughs. (In Nevin Steinberg's only partially successful sound design, this number is virtually unintelligible.) The show also makes room for a jarring comedy subplot featuring Ahmed and Rashida, workers at the club and sparring, would-be lovers. Their problem -- Rashida won't date a co-worker -- is as old as Rodgers and Hammerstein, and it serves mostly as a time filler.

Ali's hard-sell direction overemphasizes the book's homiletic nature and indulges in too many overpoweringly loud production numbers paced by Darrell Grand Moultrie's full-body choreography and Bradley King's luridly saturated lighting. Indeed, the quietest moments are the most effective; whenever the show pauses long enough to let a character ponder his or her situation, one gets a glimpse of the show that Goddess might be. Michael Thurber's always-interesting score is at its best in solo numbers backed by gorgeous piano underscoring, although his banal lyrics do little to flesh out the characters.

The songs also give Amber Iman (as Nadira) the chance to work her vocal magic, earning one ovation after another. It's too bad that she has practically no character to play. Similarly, Austin Scott's Omari is a passive, confused figure, coming to life only in his musical numbers. As Siti, Omari's mother, Ayana George Jackson makes a powerful argument for family honor in the passionate "Baobab Roots." Destinee Rea is surprisingly charming in the thankless role of Cheche. Reggie D. White brings tremendous dignity and presence to the role of Balozi, a seer, who delivers baleful messages from the gods.

Ali's production has its successes, including the appearance of Watamaraka, a giant puppet assembled in full audience view, and another in which Nadira, in her version of beating swords into plowshares, turns a warrior's bow into a lyre. The later scenes are surprisingly touching, even if the Nadira-Omari romance is, by its nature, a nonstarter. Arnulfo Maldonado's cave-like set, depicting the interior of the Moto Moto Club, adapts easily to other locations. Dede Ayite's costumes are an eye-searing assemblage of colors and patterns, which seems suitable for the setting and characters. King's lighting has its dramatic moments, including a sensational entrance for Nadira the first time we see her take the stage at the club.

Goddess is a real stab at something different and distinctive, merging African myths with contemporary musical theatre; it is also loud, colorful, achingly sincere, yet strangely empty. Nobody involved has managed to create characters compelling enough to embody the show's themes. Too much is indicated but not explored, and the result is a bit of a muddle.--David Barbour