IT was the worst of times . . . and the worst of times. Who knew how eagerly I’d await Sydney Carton’s closing words, “It’s a far, far better thing that I do . . . ”
Actually, this Carton – a sensational James Barbour – didn’t put a foot wrong all evening. It was where he had to put his foot that things fell apart.
Perhaps one more city – perhaps Dublin, with its “Riverdance” – might have added some liveliness to this slow-paced pedestrian version of Charles Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities,” which opened last night under the glowering shadow of “Les Miserables.”
Jill Santoriello’s book clings closely to Dickens’ own, with some nips and tucks, but her lyrics are unimaginative and her music sounds like “Les Miz” and dishwater.
I suppose that, as a musical, “A Tale of Two Cities” has none of the free-flowing thrust of Victor Hugo’s “Les Miz.” Here is an attempt at an epic musical with no superstructure to support it.
While the “Les Miz” team managed to extract a stirring hymnal to the glory of France, Santoriello has left herself only with Dickens’ brilliantly contrived domestic drama, which rises to histrionic heroics only in its final scene at the guillotine.
Perhaps any show that boasts more producers than leading actors must be suspect. And this “Tale,” which originated at Florida’s Asolo Repertory Theater, has all the mannerisms of a modest provincial theater, with director/choreographer Warren Carlyle’s direction and choreography appearing equally thin.
Helping this low-rent musical rise even to one and a half stars are Tony Walton’s ingenious skeletal settings and impressionistic backcloths, David Zinn’s stylish costumes and Richard Pilbrow’s imaginative lighting.
Of the performers, Brandi Burkhardt’s Lucie proved sweet-voiced, though occasionally wooden; Aaron Lazar cut a dash as the French nobleman, Charles Darnay; and in smaller roles, Michael Hayward-Jones, Craig Bennett and, particularly, Nick Wyman as Barsad had the right Dickensian spirit.
But the show belonged to Barbour’s sonorous-voiced Carton, one of literature’s first anti-heroes. He sang and acted wonderfully, with a kind of hangdog panache that was both ironic and, on the right occasion, very moving.