Theatre in Review: Bad Cinderella (Imperial Theatre) The title of the new Andrew Lloyd Webber musical is a misnomer; its heroine hardly rises to the status of "bad." Annoying? Sure. Mixed-up? You betcha. Then again, the show in which she dwells is like a hormonally confused teenager, riddled with conflicting impulses and given to impulsive lurching in different directions. Everyone involved seems convinced it is a dazzlingly original twist on a classic fairy tale: Cinderella is feisty! She has agency! She's no princessy pushover! It's a trope stated so regularly you can set your watch by it. But despite such gritted-teeth determination, Bad Cinderella is a strangely rudderless enterprise. This Cinderella is all dressed up with nowhere to go. The puzzlements arrive early. Belleville, Cinderella's hometown, appears to be populated entirely by bombshells -- the women dressed in naughty milkmaid outfits and the men in pants so tight it's a miracle they can breathe, let alone sing. (Shirts are optional.) It looks like a Minsky's Burlesque salute to the land of fairy tales. The lyrics set the tone: "Every single citizen's a cut and chiseled god/Everyone among us has a ripped and rockin' bod." (You can expect to hear the rhyme "beauty is our duty" approximately 745 times.) For all we know, the entire evening will be like this, a strenuously risqué adult panto that might be retitled Carry On, Cinderella. Then the Queen enters the town square to unveil a statue of her mysteriously vanished older son Prince Charming -- his disappearance is the first of many hazy plot points -- which Cinderella defaces with a sign saying, "Beauty Sucks." That vixen! The citizenry, horrified by her lawless behavior and bad hair, drag her off to a sinister-looking forest and tie her to a tree. Vigilante justice fails, however: Cinderella is discovered by Prince Sebastian, the spare to the throne, scorned by all because he isn't built like a Chippendale. Strangely, everyone keeps insisting that Cinderella and Sebastian are as homely as picket fences but Linedy Genao and Jordan Dobson are more attractive than those buffed and Botoxed Bellevillains. In any case, Bad Cinderella can manage only one illogical thought at a time, often forgetting everything it has previously stated. The script harps so insistently on Cinderella's feistiness that you wonder why she doesn't give her abusive Stepmother a knuckle sandwich. Sebastian is to be unwillingly married off to a randomly chosen young lady out of some vague hope of boosting the local tourist trade. (That one is a real head-scratcher.) Trying to head off a forced wedding -- she and Sebastian secretly harbor True Feelings for each other -- Cinderella turns to the Godmother, who, no fairy, is the sinister, hypodermic-wielding proprietor of a boutique-cum-plastic surgery parlor. "The damsel wants to save the prince in distress," she purrs at Cinderella. "How very modern of you." But when Sebastian is rescued from his loveless nuptials, Cinderella is missing in action, thanks to a plot twist that renders her strangely irrelevant. Lloyd Webber, our most prolific breeder of earworms, delivers plenty of catchy melodies, including the title tune, a kind of minor-key homage to "In My Own Little Corner" from Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella. But his pounding orchestrations are wearying, and David Zippel's lyrics are consistently overwrought. "I want to be hot, toenail to lash!" Cinderella sings. "I'm talking blazingly hot; I mean like volcanic ash." Well, it rhymes. Sebastian complains, "My life's a living hell, with royal duties! Like shaking countless hands and judging beauties." Again with beauty and duty! The Stepmother, showing her claws, announces, "You're feckless and worthless and dull, Cinderella!/That we bare your shame is completely your fault/And open your eyes, take a look in the mirror/You've no sense of fashion, a visual assault." That's telling her! Genao has a metallic, reach-for-the-rafters voice that gets one's attention but her chilly, abrasive Cinderella is hard to like; Dobson has a nice, easy charm that makes him a standout in a cast loaded with overactors. Both actors fail to strike romantic sparks, however. Grace McLean is desperately affected as the Queen, pushing for laughs that aren't there. The same is true of Sami Gayle and Morgan Higgins as the stepsisters Adele and Marie, made up as clones of Nicky and Paris Hilton. Christina Acosta Robinson is a suitably creepy presence as the Godmother. Cameron Loyal livens things up as Prince Charming, although his eleventh-hour appearance makes a hash of the plot. (JoAnn M. Hunter's choreography ranges from a lovely ballroom waltz to an endless Latin-themed wedding reception rock-out led by Loyal.) As the Stepmother, the great Carolee Carmello, waving a cigarette holder like Cruella De Vil or one of the Gabors, nibbles on each syllable as if it were a delicious bonbon. But even she has limited success. She and McLean have the one halfway amusing song, "I Know You," in which the Stepmother and the Queen, practicing a little mutual backbiting, recall the days when they were floozies together. It's typical of the show's muddled aspirations that it stops pushing its feminist message long enough for an old-fashioned catfight. Connor's hard-sell staging extends to the production design. Gabriela Tylesova's scenery -- a sort of Gothic-meets-French Provincial mashup with modern accents -- is heavily overdecorated, especially considering the frou-frou-ridden costumes, which borrow from many eras. (The glamorized Cinderella looks like Marilyn Monroe, ready to sing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President.") Bruno Poet's lighting amps up the numbers with typical skill, adding glamour to the big ball scene and creating a lovely rose window effect. If Gareth Owen's sound design is too loud, I suspect he was merely following orders; in any event, the lyrics are thoroughly intelligible. Bad Cinderella isn't a disaster, but it is harsh and charmless, so desperate to deconstruct its overworked subject that it leaves nothing left. It could frankly use a little bit of the old bibbidi-bobbidi-boo along with a dash of romance and a large dollop of wit. Most of it all, it could use a consistent point of view. Like many an adolescent, the show hasn't figured out what it wants to be. --David Barbour 
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