Theatre in Review: The Baker's Wife (Classic Stage Company) A remarkable reclamation job is taking place at CSC these nights: The Baker's Wife, long the unluckiest of musicals, has finally found a production that explains why theatre artists can never leave it alone. (It's the flop with a hundred lives, thanks to revivals on two continents.) The show's history is long and tortured. Composer/lyricist Stephen Schwartz, who seemed bulletproof after the triple hits of Godspell, Pippin, and The Magic Show, and book author Joseph Stein, responsible for a little thing called Fiddler on the Roof, ran into a brick wall with this project, which, in 1976, endured a six-month-long tryout tour, a Mother Courage-style trudge across the country that consumed two directors, two choreographers, and two leading ladies, with producer David Merrick making mischief at every turn. Open Patti LuPone's memoirs to the chapter on The Baker's Wife and watch the pages burst into flames. She should talk: The show rang down the curtain on the career of scenic designer Jo Mielziner, who died while rushing to yet another meeting about it. Settle in at CSC, however, and get ready to be transported by Gordon Greenberg's production, which gives the show a jewel-like setting for its many virtues. Scenic designer Jason Sherwood has ripped the top level off an entire town square, scattering masonry, lintels, and greenery everywhere. Bradley King floods the space with sunshine, alternated with moonglow washes dotted with lamplight accents. Catherine Zuber's costumes are attractive, in period, and observant of the characters. The sound specialist Jason Crystal provides an ideally transparent design. The stage is set for enchantment even before anyone enters. The rap on The Baker's Wife has always been not enough story and too many songs, and there is a tad of truth to that. The action begins with the arrival of Aimable, the middle-aged baker, in a town that, thanks to the death of a predecessor, has been without fresh bread for weeks. One taste of Aimable's baguettes and the population is kvelling, treating him like a dealer in manna from heaven. They even take to Genvieve, his much younger wife, with whom he is giddily in love. Someone who takes to her rather too much is Dominique, a strapping young chauffeur; Genvieve, who married Amiable on the rebound from an unhappy affair, at first wants nothing to do with her would-be lover. But he wears down her resistance, and, giving in to passion, they run off together. Aimable immediately spirals down into a brandy-fueled haze, neglecting his duties and committing atrocities in the kitchen. Unable to tolerate the loss of their delectable treats, the citizenry mobilizes to track down Genvieve and bring her back. It's a slight story, to be sure, and at times the second act feels stretched a little thin, especially after intermission with a suite of numbers dedicated to the shockwaves caused by Aimable's dereliction of duty. But the score is packed with gems, beginning with the soulful "Chanson," about the seismic changes that can take place under the placid veneer of village life, sung ravishingly by Judy Kuhn as the embattled wife of chilly cafe proprietor Bob Cuccioli. ("I love marriage," she notes. "Maybe not my own.") Also on hand are Arnie Burton, wielding a pointer as the ultra-rational schoolmaster, Alma Cuervo as a censorious spinster ("We are the victims of that woman's lust!"); Kevin Del Aguila as a garrulous, tactless drunk; Nathan Lee Graham as a dissipated aristocrat, trailing a trio of "nieces;" Sally Murphy as a psychologically abused wife who finds her voice; Manu Narayan as her husband, the town skeptic; and Will Roland as a priest with a gimlet-eyed view of his parishioners by way of the confessional box. There's one aspect of the casting that is a tad problematic, however. Ariana DeBose is in fine voice as Genvieve, hiding her troubles behind a calculated smile until she gives way to a wild impulse. She makes a gorgeous thing of "Meadowlark," the score's marquee number, in which Genvieve uses a beloved tale from her childhood to work out whether to flee her marriage. (One of the most astounding pieces of the Baker's Wife saga is Merrick's loathing of the number, to the point of kidnapping the charts from the theatre so it couldn't be performed for several performances. He clearly couldn't foresee that it would become a cabaret classic.) The trouble is with the men in Genevieve's life. Kevin William Paul is handsome and suitably ardent as Dominique but compared to Scott Bakula's Aimable, it's no contest. One look at the remarkably fit and trim Bakula, with his lion's mane of hair, that confident mustache, and a profile that could slice a birthday cake, and the faithless Genvieve doesn't look rash; she seems plain out of her mind. (Compounding the confusion, Bakula is marvelous throughout, giving Aimable a depth of feeling that no male ingenue can match.) By the time Genvieve comes to her senses, in the lovely, wistful ballad, "Where is the Warmth?", you want to say, Honey, what were you thinking? Never mind. The final confrontation between Aimable and Genevieve is all but guaranteed to bring a tear to your eyes. And I'm betting that you'll be more than happy to spend a couple hours in this little corner of Provence, populated by such lively characters, as embodied by the starriest supporting cast in town. The score is a wonder: There's a vaudevillian, music-hall clatter in "Bread," when everyone gets a first taste of Aimable's work (amusingly staged by choreographer Stephanie Klemons), and in "Any-Day-Now Day," when he insists on the certainty of Genevieve's imminent return. And there's a bracing toughness, faintly reminiscent of Jacques Brel, in "Proud Lady," Dominique's declaration of love. As if the previously mentioned ballads weren't enough, there's the thoughtful, melancholy "Gifts of Love," in which Genvieve tries, not entirely successfully, to count her blessings. Most of all, Greenberg handles these delicate materials with the care they require, revealing The Baker's Wife, whatever its weakness, to be a thing of tremendous feeling. It's a musical of sensibility, and its mood of romance and regret is pretty much irresistible. --David Barbour 
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