Theatre in Review: 1776 (Roundabout Theatre Company/American Airlines Theatre)

	Elizabeth A. Davis, Patrena Murray, Crystal Lucas-Perry. Photo: Joan Marcus

The furies circling the Roundabout revival of 1776, the classic musical about the Continental Congress and the rough birth of the American republic, may be more interesting than the production itself. Featuring a cast entirely made up of female, nonbinary, and transgender performers, it earned a set of all-over-the-place reviews and ignited angry chatroom debates, pitting traditionalists against progressives, that quickly descended into name-calling. A Vulture interview with a featured cast member added fuel to the fire, with the performer in question noting that the musical is "a relic," she would have directed it differently, but a job is a job and, anyway, maybe she'll get a Tony nomination out of it. (One of her directors had sharp words for her on social media, although his post has since been deleted.)

That a Broadway musical can stir up so much ire is surely a sign of the times. But let's get a grip: This high-concept revival is not an act of vandalism, as some would have you believe. Nor are its detractors secret MAGA agents, as its proponents insist. In any case, the show has bigger problems, namely its astonishing literal-mindedness: Directors Jeffrey L. Page (who also choreographed) and Diane Paulus, apparently convinced that everyone in the audience napped through American history class, are determined to spoon-feed the show's ideas, with plenty of graphic illustrations. They haven't engaged with 1776 so much as they have marked it up with a highlighter, garishly underlining points that are obvious in the original text.

Musical theatre fans have long admired 1776 for its original approach to an unusual subject. Peter Stone's book finds tremendous suspense in the events leading up to the Declaration of Independence, never mind that the outcome is never in doubt. There's nothing formulaic about the show's construction: Stone and songwriter Sherman Edwards took the gutsy decision to not insert songs simply because convention demanded it, resulting in a score that is always fresh-sounding and dramatically pertinent. It's a marvelous one-off, a straightforward piece of popular history conceived by artists who, in 1969, couldn't possibly have imagined today's very different views of race, gender, and sexual orientation.

And while it isn't quite No, No, Nanette, 1776 is, admittedly, showing its age a little in the post-Hamilton era, when personal identity issues are all the rage. A lively 2016 Encores concert staging featured a color-blind cast, including André De Shields, Nikki Renée Daniels, Jubilant Sykes, and Terence Archie, among others. The idea of a differently gendered production is, arguably, the next logical step and there is something exciting about the opening, when the cast enters, dons frock coats, and, literally, steps into the shoes of the Founding Fathers. After that, however, trouble sets in, largely because the directors are so deaf to the musical's dynamics.

Certain numbers are subjected to rude interruptions. In "The Lees of Old Virginia," Richard Henry Lee (who has been coaxed by protagonists John Adams and Benjamin Franklin into obtaining a resolution on independence from Virginia's House of Burgesses, a maneuver designed to force Congress into taking similar action), pays rousing, rollicking tribute to his storied ancestors; here, the upstage curtain parts to reveal a gaggle of elder Lees on pedestals, a gesture that slows the number down and sacrifices its momentum to an unnecessary scenic effect. Similarly, "He Plays the Violin," in which Martha Jefferson (Eryn LeCroy, singing beautifully) lightly teases Adams and Franklin with allusions to her husband Thomas' skill as a lover, is broken up by a bizarre, almost bodice-ripping, interlude in which she casts lustful glances at her spouse while he fiddles, causing the music's ebullience to wither away.

This staging of "Violin" is one indication that Page and Paulus don't know what to do with a charm song. Another is "The Egg," in which Adams, Franklin, and Jefferson, nervously sitting out the reading of the Declaration of Independence to Congress, envision the America to come. Here, a lively, witty patter song is jacked up by John Clancy's orchestrations and overwhelmed by video projections of protest movements through the decades, climaxing in a shot of the White House lit up in the rainbow colors of Pride Month. Of course, it gets a hand: Who in the Roundabout audience isn't going to cheer? But, quite apart from the pandering, when every song is pumped up to finale level, the show's impact is flattened; there's no tonal variety, no room to breathe.

The directors' most serious failures involve the overhyping of the musical's darkest moments. After more than an hour of blustering politicians backbiting and making deals, the stage is cleared so a courier from George Washington's army can deliver "Momma, Look Sharp," the heartbreaking account of a soldier, dying on the battlefield, waiting to be discovered by his mother. The song's power lies in its stillness, its quietude; it's a powerful change in mood that reminds us of the carnage outside the walls of Congress. Once again, the directors, unable to trust Edwards' lyrics, produce what amounts to a chorus line of grieving parents backed up by a full-throated ensemble of mourners. The scene's poignancy is diminished by a factor of ten.

Even more unfortunate is the handling of the musical's most scorching number. Jefferson has included an antislavery clause in the Declaration and the Southern states are pushing back. As the argument rages, Edward Rutledge, of South Carolina, launches into "Molasses to Rum to Slaves," laying out the ugly details of the Triangle Trade, which implicates Adams, Franklin, and the other northerners, for all their pious posing, in the economy of slavery. (Call 1776 a relic if you must, but this argument is surprisingly like the thesis of The 1619 Project.) Sara Porkalob, who plays Rutledge in the book scenes with an elegant sneer, never finds the number's surging musicality, but the real problem is one of focus. Its power lies in Rutledge's direct confrontation with his antagonists, the way he indicts them, to their faces, for hypocrisy and makes the charge stick. Instead, the stage is commandeered by a tableau of slaves on the auction block, again making blatantly obvious what the lyrics are already telling us. The horrors of human subjugation are, in this instance, reduced to something perilously close to kitsch.

Despite a certain unevenness in the overall company -- some aim for period style, others come off as thoroughly contemporary, winking at the audience -- several performances are striking enough that one is left wondering what a stronger revival might be like. As Adams, Crystal Lucas-Perry has plenty of presence and natural authority; her voice blends gloriously with that of Allyson Kaye Daniel, lovely as Abigail Adams -- wife, correspondent, and sparring partner. But, as written, Adams is a relentless, self-righteous nudge, forever getting under the skin of his colleagues -- qualities that Lucas-Perry never provides; surely, more incisive direction would have helped. Rather better are Patrena Murray, who, with her mordant, Whoopi Goldberg-like delivery, low-balls Franklin's wisecracks to good effect, and the visibly pregnant Elizabeth A. Davis as a Jefferson of unbending dignity and more than a little mystery. Towering over everyone is Carolee Carmello as the sunny, sardonic conservative John Dickinson, laughing easily when a point is struck against him and going for the kill when locked in angry debate. Nobody fools around with Dickinson's "Cool, Cool, Considerate Men;" it's one of the production's highlights.

There are also solid contributions from Becca Ayers and Joanna Glushak as two of the saltier and more disputations delegates and Tiffani Barbour (no relation) as the unflappable Congressional custodian. At the performance I attended, understudy Sav Souza excelled as the weak-willed delegate James Wilson, who, to his horror, must cast the decisive vote on independence.

Page's choreography draws from many sources and eras; thus, Shawna Hamic, as Lee, waves a finger in the air like a Forties hepcat, Franklin plays a bit of air guitar, and the members of Congress, fed up with Adams, frantically strike frustrated poses like the teens in Spring Awakening. Scott Pask's set, which makes use of extensive use traveler curtains, is rather Brechtian in style, a not-uninteresting idea. (It's hard to beat Jo Mielziner's classic original, which allowed the show to end in a tableau recreating John Trumbull's painting of the signing of the Declaration.) David Bengali is one of the more gifted projection designers on the scene right now, but his work here too often consists of unnecessary editorializing, just as Jonathan Deans' sound design amps up the volume to sometimes-unpleasant levels. Jen Schriever's lighting is at its best when using sidelight to create attractive tableaux. Emilio Sosa's costumes are fairly straightforward, with eccentric touches like dangling earrings on some performers; particularly puzzling is the decision to dress Abigail Adams more like an inhabitant of the Caribbean than Massachusetts.

The show still packs considerable power, especially in the later scenes when it becomes clear that a terrible compromise must be made on slavery, a choice that haunts this country to this day. (Stone's book argues, persuasively, that sausage-making is built into the American DNA, in this case to our eternal shame.) Lucas-Perry provides a fiery rendition of "Is Anybody There?", detailing Adams' private thoughts in a moment of near-defeat. And, as each delegate steps forward to sign the document, it's impossible not to shiver a little. But Page and Paulus provide a head-scratching final reveal, featuring towering piles of barrels previously seen in "Molasses to Rum to Slaves." Are they determined to undercut the finale's inherent sense of wonder? Are they making a telling comment about capitalism? Really, why are they doing 1776 at all? --David Barbour