Theatre in Review: Joy (Laura Pels Theatre)Betsy Wolfe could sell snow to the Inuit. She can charm the birds from the trees. Her singing makes strong men weep. I resort to such cliches because she is the riveting still center of Joy, a musical exercise in branding filled with standard musical tropes plus a large shot of uplift. Playing a woman gifted with an unstoppable entrepreneurial spirit, Wolfe almost sells us these used musical goods, but, for once, the onetime star of & Juliet and Falsettos is hard-pressed to close the deal. Joy is based on the life of Joy Mangano, already memorialized in the 2015 David Russell film of the same name. Billed as "a new true musical," it's the tale of a Long Island-based single mom who drags her family out of penury by inventing that indispensable household appliance, The Miracle Mop. Perhaps because Mangano herself is one of the show's over-the-title producers, the book by lead producer Ken Davenport has the sanitized feel of official history: Its central character is a plucky everywoman opposed at every turn by preening, patronizing businessmen who exist only to be defeated by her indomitable will. Although not officially based on the film, Joy, the musical, mixes fact and fiction with similar abandon. Joy is the most put-upon of women, struggling to pay the bills of an unemployed menage that includes her ex-husband, Tony; her estranged parents, Rudy and Toots; and her daughter, Christie. They're all crammed in under one roof: Rudy and Tony share a basement bedroom. Toots is a borderline agoraphobic. The perpetually angry Christie feels ignored when nobody shows up to her soccer games. And, as a kicker, Rudy is dating Lorraine, a bejeweled, fur-trimmed baby doll who was Joy's high-school classmate. I have no idea how much of this bizarre and unwholesome setup is true -- in real life, Rudy owned a body shop and Joy has three children -- but you could probably get an entire play out of it. (Much time is spent fretting that Christie isn't getting enough adult attention, but really, somebody should spirit her away from these lousy role models.) Anyway, when Joy (who has been inventing things, without success, since middle school) loses her loathed job as an airline gate agent, she risks it all on designing The Miracle Mop. But it's a struggle getting it to market: Her chief obstacles include Rudy, brilliant at mismanaging her affairs; a chorus line of QVC executives who don't believe women can sell products; and Cowboy Eddie, a double-dealing manufacturer who figures in a poorly explained subplot involving patent fraud. Like The Miracle Mop, Davenport's book is constructed from plastic components designed to click into place on cue. The result is a thoroughly mechanical contraption: Characters behave according to the script, whether it makes sense or not. Joy is a dynamo, powered by self-confidence until she makes her QVC debut, when she chokes in front of the camera, largely to provide a first-act climax. Toots is a world-class underminer who denigrates her daughter until late in the second act, when, because the dispirited Joy needs rousing, she becomes a beacon of hope in the number "Mother's Daughter." The all-male QVC cohort has a subservient female secretary who speaks her mind when an easy applause line is needed. Every member of Joy's feckless family gets a moment to admit that, dang it all, she was right all along. In the silliest twist, Joy storms a Texas courtroom and, despite a mountain of incriminating evidence, overturns legal precedent, wiping away the charges against her with an inspirational ballad. Miracle Mop indeed. Wolfe keeps her dignity through all these well-worn plot twists, refusing to soften Joy's hard edge and nimbly tackling the oversupply of can-do power ballads supplied by composer-lyricist AnnMarie Milazzo. Standing tall at center stage, looking alternately steely and thoughtful, and belting with unforced power, Wolfe often makes Joy seem better than it is. The other cast members, under Lorin Latarro's solid direction, are content with their one-note characters. Jill Abramovitz doesn't even try to make sense of Toots' unmotivated change of heart. Adam Grupper's Rudy is a portly sad sack in the Rodney Dangerfield mode, leaving one wondering what Jaygee Macapugay's Lorraine, who has quite the nest egg from her late hubby, sees in this dumpy, bankrupt duffer. As Cowboy Eddie, Paul Whitty is a Texas-fried stereotype. Honor Blue Savage sings sweetly and has some affecting moments as Christie. Brandon Espinoza is touching as Joy's loser husband, a musician with big dreams forever just out of reach. He and Wolfe share the best number, "You Have a Melody in Me," making clear that even if their marriage was a disaster, their connection is very real. Anna Louizos' scenic design has many clever touches, including a flip-up Long Island skyline and pop-out highway and store signs; once the money starts rolling in, Joy's house gets an amusing onstage makeover. Yael Lubetzky's lighting design is restrained where it needs to be, yet ready to deploy audience sweeps and expanding floor patterns when called for. David Bengali's video design is confined mostly to some live capture during the QVC scenes. Tina McCartney's costumes capture the boxy silhouettes and power suits of the early 1990s. Daniel Lundberg's so-so sound design leaves many of the lyrics obscured, although some of this is due to the cast's uneven diction. Joshua Bergasse's choreography lacks the extensive vocabulary and sass that he recently brought to Broadway's Smash. With its predictable plotting, a supporting cast that exists only as foils for the leading lady, and a score marked by a certain sameness throughout, Joy is something less than a miracle musical. The finale features video of the real Joy Mangano and the many products she has invented and hawked on television since she originally mopped up, so to speak; it's rather like watching QVC live onstage. But Betsy Wolfe is a woman undaunted. Did I mention she hands out mops to audience members in one number? Now that's a saleswoman.--David Barbour 
|
