Theatre in Review: Carousel (Imperial Theatre)

	Carousel. Photo: Julieta Cervantes

A simple, stunning gesture, only a few minutes into the first act, convinced me that all would be well with Jack O'Brien's revival of the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic fantasy of love, death, and redemption. As you probably know, Carousel begins with "The Carousel Waltz," which, aside from the fact that it may be Rodgers' most haunting melody, sets the tone of the show -- I like to think of it as his homage to Ravel -- and introduces the main characters with remarkable economy. The company arrives at a carnival, first in ones and twos and then en masse; in most productions, they congregate around a carousel, which is erected in plain view, a scenic coup de théâtre that never fails to get a hand. Under the guidance of choreographer Justin Peck, the amusement seekers arrive, all right, but, aside from a single horse seen downstage right, there is no elaborate stage machinery. Instead, as the music reaches a crescendo, a ceiling piece flies in and opens, becoming a canopy; at the same time, the dancers fall into place, becoming all at once the horses and their riders, all caught up in a merry kaleidoscope of movement accentuated by the changing colors of Brian MacDevitt's lighting. There's a topper: As the waltz comes to a full stop, everything freezes, and, in the center of the action, we see Joshua Henry, as Billy Bigelow, carnival barker, ride operator, and the tormented hero who occupies this musical's heart.

This number is more than a clever bit of staging -- it's a manifesto, if you will, a declaration that, more than in most revivals of Carousel, dance will drive the action. In transplanting Ferenc Molnar's cosmic fantasy, Liliom, to a New England of sea shacks and lobster pots, Hammerstein celebrated a distinctly American way of life. Throughout, Peck has found a style that recalls the work of Agnes de Mille, Carousel's original choreographer, without being slavishly derivative; as befits its working-class characters, the gestures are bold and muscular, yet enacted with a lightness and lyricism that generates its own form of delight.

It's one of many departures from standard practice, some of which have upset the show's many hardcore fans. A couple of numbers ("Geranium in the Winders" and "There's Nothin' So Bad for a Woman") have been cut, along with some excisions to the text, seemingly intended to play down any hint of masochism in the relationship of Billy and Julie Jordan, whom he marries and fails, spectacularly, as a husband. Among the dissatisfied, there is widespread nostalgia for the National Theatre staging, seen here in 1994, which was conceptually brilliant but indifferently sung, to an almost criminal degree. That production eliminated the number "The Highest Judge of All" -- in part, one suspects, because the actor playing Billy couldn't manage it.

There are no such worries here. In addition to any number of exciting dance sequences, the score, once again including "The Highest Judge of All," is burnished to a bright golden hue by one of the most across-the-board vocally gifted companies Broadway has seen in some time. Henry makes fine use of his powerful baritone voice while simultaneously capturing the conflicts of an angry young man who falls in love fast, marries on impulse -- and, having lost his job in the process, simmers in frustration until he makes a catastrophically bad choice. "Soliloquy" -- in which he greets the news of impending fatherhood -- is the acid test for any actor playing Billy Bigelow; it is gorgeously delivered, packed with the warring emotions of pride and fear that make the number such a superb example of musical theatre writing. And when, after his death, he is granted the right to return to earth for a single day, his halting attempt at reaching the daughter he never met is achingly poignant, ending as it does with a slap, followed by the horrified understanding that he has brought sorrow to everyone he loves.

As Julie, who marries Billy and earns a life of hard endurance for herself and her daughter, Jessie Mueller brings an innate strength that keeps the character from seeming a doormat. She is a solitary, independent soul -- she swears she'll never marry and throws over her job when her boss tries to meddle in her affairs -- yet thoroughly convincing as she falls under Billy's spell. She and Henry mine "If I Loved You" for every bit of its guarded, secretly passionate yearning. She captures Julie's denial -- he only hit her once, she insists -- and her awful helplessness, beautifully conveyed in the melancholy ballad "What's the Use of Wond'rin'?" And, gazing down at Billy's corpse after he was killed escaping a crime scene, she signals, in a single glance, her deep-down awareness that, sooner or later, it would come to this.

Also on hand is Renée Fleming, looking gorgeous and in fine vocal form as Nettie, the store owner who acts as Julie's mother figure. She brings a sunny smile and lighter-than-air vocals to "June is Bustin' Out All Over" and a rocklike resolve to "You'll Never Walk Alone," trying to give strength to Julie after Billy's death. Lindsay Mendez brings fine period style and her singular way with a wisecrack to the role of Carrie, Julie's best friend, who makes a respectable, if stifling, marriage to the go-getter Enoch Snow (Alexander Gemignani, in excellent voice). Margaret Colin, her frizzy hair looking like a collection of loose electric wires, her dresses made of hideous floral patterns and uncountable numbers of ruffles, is a frowsy, furious bully as Mrs. Mullin, the carnival owner, who fires Billy in a fit of jealousy. In a notable example of luxury casting, John Douglas Thompson presides over the action with an almost eerie serenity as The Starkeeper, the heavenly bureaucrat who adjudicates Billy's case, guiding him to a single decisive moment of redemption.

Of course, the major dance set pieces are there, including the heartbreaking Act II ballet for Louise, whose young life has been stained by her late father's reputation, leaving her socially shunned and, when not in a rage, seeking out affection wherever she can get it. Brittany Pollack, impeccable as Louise, is a New York City Ballet veteran, as is Amar Ramasar, as Jigger Craigin, the bad companion who leads Billy into disaster; here he takes the role of lead dancer in many of the ensemble numbers.

Santo Loquasto's painterly period renditions of New England -- a grove, a seaside cottage, a waterfront, all set against an ocean peppered with sailboats -- are almost always embedded with stars, linking the earthly characters with the otherworldy dimension of The Starkeeper in his heavenly realm. MacDevitt's lighting covers the stage with sunlight that turns crepuscular and moonlight that casts a faint chill, only turning overtly theatrical for certain key sequences. (The moody look of the waterfront, the site of Billy's death, is a fine exercise in chiaroscuro.) The costume designer, Ann Roth, has unrolled bolt after bolt of gingham and plaid, bringing subtly effective colors to enliven the characters' plain everyday wear. Jonathan Tunick's orchestrations have a lovely period sound that, thanks to the sound designer, Scott Lehrer, is delivered with crystal transparency.

O'Brien's direction is loaded with grace notes, including the lengthy "bench scene," which introduces Julie, Billy, and Carrie through a trio of numbers; he also stages Billy's death, in a botched robbery, with considerable impact. Occasionally, things don't quite work: For all the fluency of his dancing, Ramasar's acting could improve. Also, the decision to have The Starkeeper wander around, keeping an eye on Billy well before his death, adds a note of predestination that seems out of place. Having hired such an eminent actor for this small role, the director seems to be casting about to give him something more to do.

These few quibbles aside, this is a masterly, highly original revival that makes a strong case for a show that some have feared might strike a few sour notes in today's changed social climate. The Billy-Julie love affair is fatally flawed, but it also carries the seeds of renewal, as revealed in the devastating finale, in which Billy, witnessing Louise's high school graduation, is given the chance to pronounce a benediction that traverses the boundaries of life and death. Carousel is one of the very few examples of genuine tragedy in the musical theatre canon, and this production honors it in its own unique way. -- David Barbour