Theatre in Review: End of the Rainbow (Belasco Theatre)

"I could throw up in their laps and they'd still think I was glamorous." So says Judy Garland in End of the Rainbow, a play designed to put that proposition to the severest of tests. It's doubtful there's another show in town more polarizing than Peter Quilter's drama about the last days of the great singing star. Whether you think it's an unsparing look at an artist in extremis or an exercise in grave-robbing will probably depend on how you react to the play's ugly, unvarnished depiction of Garland. Or, let me put it this way: If you've ever wanted to see Judy screaming "Suck my dick!" or running around the stage on all fours, pretending to be a dog, lifting a leg in simulated urination, this is definitely the show for you.

Those who feel that there is nothing to be gained by such rubbernecking may well want to steer clear of the Belasco for the near future. Quilter has stitched together old gossip columns and back issues of Photoplay into what is meant to be a hair-raising portrait of the artist as an aging addict. (There are, of course, shelves full of Garland biographies, some more reliable than others, for a playwright to draw on.) The action focuses on one of her final professional engagements, at the London cabaret Talk of the Town, in December 1968, about six months before she took her final overdose. As the lights come up, she arrives at the Ritz -- full of sass and vinegar, piles of luggage in tow, complaining about the size of the suite -- accompanied by Mickey Deans, her new manager and fiancé. (In case there's any doubt about their relationship, within the first 60 seconds, she's trying to unzip his fly and get down to business.) There to greet them is Anthony, a pianist and veteran of one of her most disastrous tours (in Australia in 1964), who has once again signed up for active duty. (Anthony is fictional, and is meant to stand in for the many gay men who cared for Garland along the way.)

The play begins on a promising note; despite Judy's constant, almost frantic, protestations of happiness, it's clear that there's trouble brewing. Mickey has her on a short leash, keeping her off pills and liquor, and the restraint is beginning to chafe. The star is seriously broke, and the hotel has only admitted her because Mickey has agreed to pay the bill in advance, on a weekly basis -- but Judy quickly scuttles that, charming the manager with the promise of tickets for her show. Even her jokes emit little distress signals. Rehearsing a new opening number, she says, "I'll skip the next lyric; there'll be applause." Raising a glass and giving it a fish-eyed stare, she says, "Whenever I drink water, I always feel I'm missing something."

She's not missing it for long, as her need for Ritalin, chased by vodka, proves all-consuming. She stops making sense during interviews. She loses her place on stage and gets wrapped up in her mic cord. Soon, she's fleeing the cabaret in mid-show, coaxed back only when Mickey shoves a handful of pills in her mouth. These scenes do pack a certain tabloid shock value, but their impact is often less than harrowing, largely because one can't stop noticing the crudity of Quilter's writing. The real Garland was known for her black, madcap humor, which asserted itself even in her most terrible moments. Quilter gives her wisecracks along the lines of "My chin and tits are in a race to my knees!"

If nothing else, End of the Rainbow allows Tracie Bennett, a British musical theatre star, to make her Broadway debut in one of the most punishing roles I've ever seen. She throws herself into the role of Garland with mad abandon, striking outrageous poses, delivering the most insolent of remarks in a fair approximation of that trademark voice (a strange cross between a bark and a murmur), and tearing through Garland's songbook as if her life depended on it. The songs include a wounding, masochistic reading of "The Man That Got Away" -- in her hands, each lyric is like a self-inflicted cut -- and a speed-fueled "Come Rain or Come Shine" that plays like a race to the edge of a cliff.

But, for all the effort and real talent that Bennett pours into the role, one is always aware of watching a rather strenuous impersonation and not a fully realized characterization. Garland's sly wit, her marvelously eccentric mannerisms, and her way of making her astonishing power seem like the most natural of gifts, are all absent. Garland was a star, the kind of performer who erased the line between her public and private personas, and, in doing so, could annihilate audiences with a gesture. Bennett puts so much effort into the role, I was afraid she might break something.

Tom Pelphrey's Mickey is a plausible depiction of a likable hustler who, despite his good intentions, is in over his head, but the actor is hamstrung by the role's two dimensions. We never get a sense of what has drawn Mickey to Judy in the first place -- Quilter seems agnostic on that point -- and, about halfway through, he flips from being a dreamboat to a drug-pusher with little or no warning. Michael Cumpsty's fine work adds welcome shadings to the role of Anthony, who is otherwise your basic sad, wisecracking Judy-loving queen. (The script forces the characters into a kind of triangle, repeatedly making the point that Mickey can give her sex but not understanding, while Anthony's love is a strictly hands-off affair.)

The production benefits from William Dudley's posh hotel setting -- it looks like an anteroom in Versailles -- which partially flies out to allow the onstage orchestra to play during the numbers; his costumes faithfully copy a number of Garland's famous outfits. Christopher Akerlind is not a designer I associate with show business razzle-dazzle -- even when he designs musicals, his work is marked by a certain restraint -- but he proves the right man for the job here, lighting the hotel scenes with subtlety and providing stronger, starker looks for the musical numbers. Gareth Owen's sound design sounds perfectly natural in the Ritz scenes and discreetly amplified during the songs.

There's no question that Bennett's performance has its electrifying qualities, and at the performance I attended, the audience jumped to its feet with a speed that impressed, even on a Broadway where standing ovations have become the norm. But all I could think of was Joyce Carol Oates' definition of "pathography," a literary genre that she once defined as "hagiography's diminished and often prurient twin." She also wrote, "Its motifs are dysfunction and disaster, illnesses and pratfalls, failed marriages and failed careers, alcoholism and breakdowns and outrageous conduct. Its scenes are sensational, wallowing in squalor and foolishness; its dominant images are physical and deflating; its shrill theme is 'failed promise' if not outright 'tragedy.'" That's End of a Rainbow in a nutshell. Joyce, honey, this one's for you.--David Barbour