Theatre in Review: Scandalous: The Life and Trials of Aimee Semple McPherson (Neil Simon Theater)

	Carolee Carmello (center) with members of the cast. Photo: Jeremy Daniel

Almost everyone on the creative team of Scandalous is a Broadway neophyte, which goes a long way toward explaining what is going on at the Neil Simon. Scandalous looks like a musical, and it sounds like a musical. But it is a pale imitation of the real thing, a collection of loud, blowsy production numbers that do precious little to illuminate the fascinating figure at its core.

The best thing about Kathie Lee Gifford's book and lyrics is its subject. McPherson was arguably the first celebrity evangelist -- her heyday was the 1920s -- and her Angelus Temple, in Los Angeles, set the standard for the megachurches of today. Her services featured elaborate scenic and costume designs; she was also the first of her breed to take advantage of the new medium of radio, spreading her version of the gospel from coast to coast. Born on an Ontario farm, she ended up after years on the road (and a stopover in China) in Los Angeles, where she became as big a celebrity as the movie stars crowding around her. It's a jam-packed, juicy, only-in-America narrative, teeming with husbands, lovers, divorces, and assorted sins, and culminating in a scandal that dominated the front pages for months.

Gifford's libretto covers the story's main high (and low) points, but her portrait of McPherson is almost entirely lacking in nuance or detail. In her telling, McPherson was driven entirely by a need for stardom, aligned with an unwavering belief in the Almighty; her undoing came because of her overweening pride -- a better title might have been Can't Stop the Preaching -- and the temptations of men. As she travels her own personal glory road, running roughshod over anyone who gets in her way, she makes Gypsy's Mama Rose look like the quiet, stay-at-home type. Sadly, all this relentlessness quickly becomes wearying.

At the same time, Gifford doesn't want to investigate McPherson's shortcomings too closely. We see her flirting with a married sound engineer, but never learn for certain if they had an affair. There are constant references to her drug use -- she died of an accidental overdose of barbiturates -- but few details are supplied. Interestingly, we never hear from the second husband, who, feeling abandoned, divorced her, or the children that the show admits she neglected. The show touches on her vulgar, theatricalized services -- one character calls them "Godeville" -- but we're expected to see them as evidence of her ingenuity.

And when it comes to her starring moment in the tabloids, Scandalous really disappoints: McPherson vanished for nearly a month in 1926, and, reappearing, claimed she had escaped from kidnappers. The story didn't really hold up and she was charged with obstruction of justice; many believed she had run off with Fred Ormiston, the sound engineer, who disappeared concurrently with her. McPherson was later acquitted, and the episode remains a mystery. Gifford takes the view that, whatever happened, McPherson was human like the rest of us, and surely deserves God's forgiveness. This is admirable theology but poor dramaturgy. If Gifford can't offer some kind of informed speculation about the event, she should at least be more willing to examine the flaws that led to it. (Left out of Scandalous is the fact that McPherson's mother was indicted as well, suggesting that the two were in cahoots.) The show doesn't shy away from suggesting that she blackmailed her way out of her legal problems, but nevertheless, the character of McPherson, for all her self-assertion, is plagued by a maddening vagueness.

The book suffers from Gifford's inexpert construction as well. There's an utterly laughable scene in which two members of the Ku Klux Klan show up -- in their robes! -- to drop off a bag full of gold bars. (Aimee doesn't approve, but she keeps the money anyway; I love the idea of Klansmen cruising around Hollywood in full drag, with bags of ingots in the trunk.) Her lyrics, aside a few deeply unfortunate rhymes ("Hey, little lassie/Come show me your assie") tend to be painfully plainspoken and riddled with clichés. ("You can't know the future/But God has a plan/And it's been unfolding before time began/And you can't know life 'til you lived it in Him/And you can't know love 'til you're filled to the brim.")

The score -- music by David Friedman and David Pomeranz -- does get off to an electric start with "Stand Up!", which also establishes the convention that we are in the Angelus Temple with Aimee as she tells the story of her life. Trouble is, almost every number that follows is pitched at finale level. (It doesn't help that someone has prevailed on Ken Travis, the sound designer, to crank up every number to earsplitting levels.) Gifford's libretto might not matter so much had the songs probed the characters more deeply. Instead, the score is an exhausting parade of would-be showstoppers.

These songs exist in part because McPherson is played by Carolee Carmello, whose stainless steel lungs and brilliant interpretive abilities are one of contemporary Broadway's real miracles. Carmello was on vocal rest the day before the show opened, and it's easy to see why: It's hard to think of another show in which the leading lady is pushed so far, belting out one anthem after another. Forced to shoulder a score consisting of nothing but eleven o'clock numbers, she delivers a steamroller performance and, astonishingly, her energy never seems to flag. But it's hard not to feel that a great talent is being exploited by the overuse of one of her of signature qualities. By the end, you're likely to be starved for a little subtlety, an occasional moment of quiet reflection.

The rest of the cast features some real Broadway pros doing their level best with one-note characters. Candy Buckley puts her powerful stage presence to work as McPherson's disapproving mother, going head-to-head with Carmello in a number of confrontations. As Emma Jo, McPherson's loyal lieutenant, Roz Ryan works a symphony of variations on the expression "hmmm" and makes the most of her say-it-sister wisecracks. ("You know, the trouble with trouble is you don't know you in trouble, 'til you in trouble.") Saddled with two thankless roles -- as McPherson's feckless, if loving, father, and a Los Angeles bishop who wants to get rid of her ASAP -- a largely wasted George Hearn is his usual professional self. Edward Watts is solid, both as McPherson's charismatic first husband and her narcissistic pretty-boy third spouse. Andrew Samonsky does well with the underwritten role of Ormiston. Elizabeth Ward Land is effective as Louella Parsons, who keeps a skeptical eye on Aimee's rising fortunes. (Between this show and Chaplin -- and, yes, the silent comic makes an appearance -- whoever thought we would have Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons on Broadway stages in the same season?)

The action unfolds inside the Angelus Temple, which, in Walt Spangler's set design, constitutes as a series of Art Deco stalagmites that looks like a cross between a Mormon house of worship and the planet of Mongo in the old Flash Gordon serials. (These are lined with either LED strips or, more likely, rope light, in order to make the all-white set change colors; however, the units are visible, making the set look cheesier than I think anyone intended.) Occasionally, the upstage walls part to show other locations -- a farm, a city street -- rendered in a manner after the Impressionists. There are also some amusingly over-the-top Bible sets for Aimee's services, especially one featuring Samson chained to the walls of some pagan temple. Natasha Katz's lighting gets the job done, adding sparkle to the songs without adding to the overall feeling of overkill. Gregory A. Popyk's costumes -- from turn-of-the-century farm wear to smart Hollywood frocks -- feel thoroughly authentic.

In the end, Scandalous is a long, loud evening with a surprisingly inconclusive character at its center and a mission to deliver nothing but uplift. A faithful, warts-and-all portrait of McPherson would probably prove to be first-rate drama. Instead, I left the theatre feeling that somebody was trying to sell me something.--David Barbour