Come Fly Away
By now, Twyla Tharp knows her way around the jukebox musical, having given birth to one hit (Movin’ Out) and one flop (The Times They Are A-Changing). With Come Fly Away, the choreographer has given us the first iPod musical.
The songs, set to many - too many - songs performed by Frank Sinatra, come rat-tat-tat, one after another, with barely a second in between. There is, however, no rhyme or reason to their placement.
So we get a sexy come-on next to a mournful ballad, followed by a love song, and then a jazzy uptempo swing number. None of it makes any sense - not the dancing, the song placement, the musical arrangements, the set or the costumes.
The best thing that can be said for Come Fly Away is that it may finally get Sinatra out of Tharp’s system. She’s been obsessed with the crooner for decades, and has the output to prove it. Hey, there are worse obsessions.
The eminent music critic John Rockwell has called him the finest song stylist of the 20th century. The chairman of the board could phrase a single word to put depth into that few other singers achieve in a whole song.
But Tharp seems to take a perverse delight in ignoring the lyrics. Take just example, "One for My Baby": Whenever I hear this song, I picture a man, fedora askew, overcoat slung over his shoulder, cigarette dangling from his mouth, as he ambles out of bar at closing time. Tharp, however, chooses this song, the epitome of a guy mourning an unsuccessful love affair, for a sexy love duet.
The costumes reflect the schizophrenic choreography. There are ’70s disco shimmer, ’50s guido suits, ’40s nightclub glam and ’80s Dynasty gaudy. In the middle of the second act, for no particular reason, certain members of the cast take off some of their clothing and reveal underwear straight out of Victoria’s Secret and Undergear. Some guys have suit pants but no shirt; another one has what looks like Colt red skintight boxer briefs - while wearing a shirt and tie.
The set is probably the most coherent thing about the production. It’s a nightclub. That, at least, makes sense, although the lovable but gruff owner is straight out of MGM central casting; all he needs to complete the look is a coin to flip, George Raft-style.
The worst offender, other than the choreography, is the music. Sinatra’s own voice has been expertly mixed from his recordings. But there is a live (very good) swing band onstage. Occasionally, a female singer croons into a microphone. If the sound engineer could make the original sound so perfect, why bother with a live orchestra?
Whenever there is live singing, it makes the dancing markedly more effective. One has to wonder why various singers - there’s a whole subculture of Sinatra imitators out there, among many other - weren’t utilized. Instead, there’s a vaguely creepy feeling, like that spate of commercials where dead celebrities like Humphrey Bogart or Marilyn Monroe were brought out of cold storage to sell detergent or deodorant.
The choreography is full of wowy-zowy moments, but it doesn’t really add up to much. The first few times we see women flying in men’s arms, to be raised and thrown around, it’s astonishing. By the 100th time, it’s repetitive.
The dancers don’t jitterbug, which is odd, since Sinatra was the king of the bobby soxers. There are some Fosse moves and - in the evening’s most jaw-droppingly weird moment - break dancing. Mostly, however, the choreography presents a limited vocabulary.
The dancers are certainly energetic and represent a wealth of talent. But some of the casting choices are strange. Charlie Neshyba-Hodges is a super-talented dancing clown, but he’s also short. Very, very short. So what does Tharp do? She pairs with a moderately tall woman to partner.
John Selya is a great dancer, but he’s heavy in the middle. Watching him pirouette is not unlike watching Alamo, the giant cube on Astor Place, rotate on its axis. Karine Plantadit gets the flashiest moments. She’s certainly athletic, and if she can sing and act the way she dances, I hope someone writes a musical biography of Eartha Kitt or Josephine Baker for her. But she’s too fierce for the ever-cool Sinatra. She comes across as a coke-infused Studio 54 celebutante more than an Ava Gardner or Lauren Bacall.
In fact, a great deal of the choreography is tacky. Like Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart’s definition of pornography, it’s hard to define, but I know it when I see it. Some of the dancing crosses from erotic to porn, such as when Plantadit is held aloft, her legs spread-eagled to the audience, a come-hither look on her face.
Such moments - and there are way too many of them in Come Fly Away - had me mentally scratching my head and wondering what on earth Tharp was thinking. The total absence of a script, the randomness of the musical selections, the hodge-podge of costumes and choreography ... it’s thin gruel for a Broadway show.
The only people to whom I can wholeheartedly recommend Come Fly Away are non-Engilsh speakers, since there is no book, and you don’t have to know the language to appreciate Sinatra. So if you’re entertaining relatives from Japan or clients from China, this is probably the best show in town. Otherwise, this one is for the most diehard Tharp fans only.
Come Fly Away is playing an open run at the cavernous Marriott Theater, located inside the Marriott Marquis Hotel, on Broadway at 45th Street. For tickets and information, go to the show’s website.
