Theatre in Review: Working (Prospect Theater Company/59E59)

"I hear America singing." That's the first line of Working, in a nod to Walt Whitman, and there couldn't be a better time to hear these voices, each of them a brilliant detail in a theatrical mural of everyday people on the job. They're tough-minded, flippant, acidly observant, frightened, furious, and always, always gorgeous in their remarkable specificity. Studs Terkel, the journalist who had America's ear and provided the source material for this stirring musical entertainment, called it "the extraordinary dreams of ordinary people." And indeed, Working presents a parade of indelibly etched self-portraits: Whether it is a hedge fund manager defensively describing his money-grubbing ways as the cornerstone of a great society; an airline attendant offering a quietly chilling account of serving meals on a plane that she has been confidentially informed is in deep distress; or a community organizer summing up the backbreaking work of getting people to believe in themselves, Working has an enormous amount to say about the way we live in these United States.

Sometimes a show takes decades to come into its own. Working, devised by Stephen Schwartz and adapted by him and Nina Faso from Terkel's book of interviews with working Americans, flopped on Broadway in 1978, despite a strong cast and distinguished list of contributors. (Among show fans, it is scandalously known as the musical that featured Patti LuPone without allotting her a single song; yes, it was before Evita, but what were they thinking?) At the time, the feeling was that the gritty authenticity of the spoken passages, taken more or less verbatim from Terkel, fought against the necessary stylization of the musical numbers -- a case of documentary realism vs. musical comedy glitter.

Today, one suspects that the original production was overscaled for the Richard Rodgers Theatre. The big lie of musical theatre is the notion that any flop show, no matter how dire, can be saved by staging it with six people and a piano but, in truth, Working probably always wanted the pocket-sized production it gets here. Beowulf Boritt's ingenious two-level set places the band above the stage, with the actors emerging from an upstage dressing room visible through a scrim. Under the guidance of the director, Gordon Greenberg, each character quickly becomes our confidant: an office worker describing her "Satan boss," a UPS delivery guy who amuses himself by sneaking up on housewives, or a publicist who has nothing but "rooms full of clippings and a case of colitis" to show for his efforts. The libretto makes some wicked juxtapositions, pairing a coldly self-aware hooker with an air-headed fundraiser. ("I like to think of myself as an upper-class working girl.") This new version, with additional material by Greenberg, updates the group portrait to include such modern realities as Indian call centers, the politics of office cubicles, and the death of job security. Lin-Manuel Miranda, who wasn't born in 1978, contributes a welcome pair of contemporary songs: "Delivery," about the routine of a fast-food delivery guy, and "A Very Good Day," sung by a pair of professional caregivers who "do the work that no one wants to do."

Miranda is in good company; a look at the show's list of contributors brings the term "motley crew" to mind, but this proves to be another of Working's strengths, allowing the score to capture, without strain, an wide range of ages, class levels, and points of view. Schwartz kicks off the evening with "All the Livelong Day," which percolates with the caffeinated energy of everyday folk facing another work week. Craig Carnelia's "Just a Housewife" is the lament of a homemaker who knows she doesn't count for anything in the world's eyes. In "Nobody Tells Me How," Mary Rodgers and Susan Birkenhead expose the dissatisfactions of a veteran schoolteacher unable and unwilling to keep up with a changing society. James Taylor's "Millwork" is a devastating account of a woman whose heart and mind are dulled by the constant repetitions on the factory line. ("It's me and my machine for the rest of the morning/For the rest of the afternoon/And the rest of my life.") Micki Grant's "Cleanin' Women" is the defiantly up-tempo anthem of a woman willing to empty wastebaskets forever if it means her daughter grows up with more choices.

Greenberg has assembled a fine cast, each of them gifted with the ability shape-shift from one role to the next in a matter of seconds. Marie-France Arcilla delivers "Millwork" with heartbreaking understatement; she is also affecting as a nanny who, even as she guides her charges through their daily activities, wonders about her own children, who live far, far away. Joe Cassidy is especially effective as a construction worker who still chokes up when recalling how he disappointed his father by not attending college; he also finds the melancholy heart of "Joe," a retiree's account of his uneventful day. Donna Lynne Champlin seizes the most typically musical comedy number, "It's an Art," about a waitress who delights in her work, making a little showstopper out of it. Jay Armstrong Johnson excels as working class characters in "Brother Trucker," a Taylor piece that marries cynical lyrics to a jaunty melody, and "The Mason," about a bricklayer who takes an almost Zen satisfaction in his work. Nehal Joshi is effective as the youthful hero of "Delivery," and as a patient home health-care aide. Keep your eye on the self-deprecating smile Kenita R. Miller flashes in "Just a House;" there's plenty of anger boiling underneath. She also makes "Cleanin' Women" into a powerful act of affirmation.

Also making fine contributions from Jeff Croiter's subtly modulated lighting; Mattie Ullrich's quick-change costumes; Jeremy J Lee's bright, clear sound; Aaron Rhyne's subtly rendered projections, most of them in black and white, of various workplaces; and the sound montage, by Ray Nardelli and Joshua Horvath, which evoke the voices of Terkel's interviewees. (Boritt's set is bedecked with a number of old-fashioned reel-to-reel tape recorders, of the sort Terkel might have used.)

"Jobs are not big enough for people," one of the characters comments early on, putting her finger at the conflict at the heart of Working. The show is filled with people who insist that they are not defined by the jobs, even as they secretly worry that indeed they are. They struggle to maintain a critical distance from their work -- yet without it, they wonder if life has any meaning. (It's a conundrum, one that most of us face, and the solution is elusive.) Above all they want to have "something to point to," as the final songs puts it, a sense that whatever they do, they're leaving something behind, some kind of mark on the world. Especially right now, with unions being all but legislated out of existence in some states and politicians crying out about class war and denouncing average Americans as parasites on the body politic, the wisdom of these Working people seems especially pertinent. The time may be at last for this heartfelt and mordant entertainment. -- David Barbour