By Elliot Boswell
In 1928, when master dramatist Bertolt Brecht and avant-garde composer Kurt Weill collaborated to write "The Threepenny Opera," people expected a strange work, especially for a musical. With Brecht's theory of 'epic theatre' placed overwhelmingly front and center, it was indeed strange, and garnered conflicting reviews upon its widespread release all across Europe. Nevertheless, it became a hit on both sides of the Atlantic, and as evidenced by last night's sold-out debut here on the Bluff, its popularity has yet to wane.
Unlike the gradual acceptance of many controversial works from the first half of the century, "Threepenny's" bizarre qualities, while no less canonical, remain both difficult to comprehend and to sit through. Brecht was in the process of perfecting what he had dubbed 'epic theatre'; that is, defamiliarizing his audience from their standard expectations of theatre through his "Verfremdungseffekt," or "alienation effect," and in doing so, remind everyone that the stage is merely a construct. In "Threepenny," he achieves this distance in a series of methods designed to break the fourth wall, among them placards, character commentary and narrative disruption.
However, as a 2006 Broadway revival was testament to, such techniques are often difficult for directors to resist, and the result proves so utterly confrontational that audiences have no incentive to even attend. That revival was carried to such extremes - glow-in-the-dark underwear provided snatches of action in orgy scenes and neon signs blaringly broadcasted whatever was taking place on stage - that critics condemned it pointlessly numbing and hedonistic, and worse, a grave departure from Brecht's intent. Directed by Andrew Golla, I am happy to say that the current UP incarnation avoids such pitfalls while adequately maintaining the Brechtian spirit of estrangement, a balance more difficult to achieve than it may sound.
From the start of "Threepenny," it is clear that the show's approach to the theatre-going experience is an unconventional one. Rather than the usual "please put your cell phones on silent" introduction from the stage-manager, a poorly-dressed character came out and read an introduction in a Cockney accent, before proceeding to berate an audience member for attempting to take pictures of the show. Thus the stage is duly set for the stream of interruptions and meta-commentary that follows, interruptions that often serve to deflate the plot, and at times, utterly obscure it.
The plot, as it were, revolves around the charismatic small-time thief MacHeath (Jake Wilhelmi) and his womanizing exploits in roughly turn-of-the-century London. He marries the semi-virtuous Polly Peacham (Brittney Harris), whose father (Devin Moran) runs a business of manipulating the beggars of the city (all clad in appropriately Dickensian rags), and who consequently tries to get MacHeath hanged. However, Mr. Peacham's efforts are hindered by the fact that the chief of police, Tiger Brown (Will Steele), is an old friend of Mac's and the play launches into a series of betrayals and brothels, proselytisms (of sorts) and protests.
But in a work where technique trumps storyline, "what happens" is borderline immaterial compared to "how it happens." Soliloquies - a character speaking his or her own thoughts aloud for the audience - are seamlessly passed off from one actor to another without regard for the potential privacy of said thoughts. During musical numbers, background actors subtly disrupt the song by reacting quizzically rather than moving in the careful choreography that is customary in musicals.
The ordinarily clear demarcation between the orchestra and the actors is blurred as the musicians are in costume and the conductor watched the action intently. When Tiger Brown walks on stage for the first time, MacHeath introduces him to the audience, reminding us again that this is just a play, not reality.
Such breaks in the show's narrative result in a consistent refusal to let the audience "get lost" in the action - it seemed that every time the story threatened to pick up momentum, Golla somehow undercut it, disorienting any attempt to let the emotional gravity of a scene hit home. It was effective: When I heard Golla mutter, "Oh, crap" from behind me, I was unsure as to whether or not it was all part of the insidious attempt to alienate me from the action taking place on stage. (It wasn't, but that's not the point; the fact that I doubted everything is.)
With all this in mind, how is it possible to evaluate the actors' performances? Even if they appear to be untruthful, there is the possibility that it is an intentional attempt to expose the fact that the stage is not real life and should not be considered as such. That said, Wilhelmi is outstanding as the charmingly manipulative MacHeath, and Connor Bond plays one of Mac's henchman with a compelling ferocity.
On the musical side, both Moran and Danielle Larson as the prostitute Jenny Diver display rich vocal abilities, and Emily Douglas as Lucy Brown has a knack for impeccable comic timing, a difficult feat to manage while having to sing simultaneously. But this is an incomplete list, and considering the content at hand, maybe its method of assessment are far off the mark.
Weill's jazzy score is relentlessly anti-showstopper - actors often sing to the accompaniment of only one instrument - and the numbers tend to jauntily waltz their way along instead of building to grand, harmonious flourishes. The songs tend to end without any kind of musical resolution, leaving the audience wondering if they really are over, or if the singer will appear with a "Just Joking!" sign and really finish it.
In an ending that skewers the sentimentality of musical theater, Brecht's wicked brand of Marxist satire becomes clear when he asks the question, "What is the robbing of a bank compared with the founding of a bank?" MacHeath is on the gallows, betrayed by his lover(s) when an official pardon arrives from the queen herself, arbitrarily absolving him from his crimes and offering him a royal baronetcy.
It is a completely implausible finish and exposes the inherent construct of theatre in one grand, maudlin stroke. As the play itself offers, "If only life were so easily mended."
