Yes, this is a bizarre play set in a godless Manhattan. When the gang meet a bishop, he laments that he is terrible and his job and begins looking for different employment. The Shiva who watches over Claudia’s kids is not the Hindu deity, however the identify of her nanny. As with Into The Woods, Sondheim asks what we do with ourselves after we lack a tenet – God, a narrator – and are compelled to confront the truth that we’re merely right here, the sheer absurdity of Being Alive.
Speaking of Being Alive, the play lacks a showstopper. The songs have all of the genius fast-paced patter of Sondheim’s greatest works, however not one of the gut-punch, levitate-you-off-your-seat eleven o’clock numbers for followers to belt appallingly in the bathe. The cadences could have you buzzing ‘Giants in the Sky’, however by the fourth choral interlude, you is likely to be eager for ‘Ladies Who Lunch’.
%2520and%2520and%2520Martha%2520Plimpton%2520(Claudia%2520Bursik-Zimmer)%2520for%2520Here%2520We%2520Are%2520at%2520the%2520National%2520Theatre.%2520Photographer%2520Marc%2520Brenner%252002108.jpg)
%2C%2520Rory%2520Kinnear%2520(Leo%2520Brink)%2520and%2520Jane%2520Krakowski%2520(Marianne%2520Brink)%2520in%2520Here%2520We%2520Are%2520at%2520the%2520National%2520Theatre.%2520Photographer%2520Marc%2520Brenner%252000152.jpg)
In truth, throughout Act Two, our baleful bishop declares that ‘the piano has died’, and the songs cease altogether, changed by weird musical interludes with the spookiest use of a bear on stage since The Winter’s Tale. Make no mistake, nevertheless, the rating is as difficult as ever. ‘Soldier’s Song’, a literal fever dream of a quantity that smashes the fourth wall with a steam prepare, a stuffed lamb, and a few rubber Brie, sees Richard Fleeshman’s soldier boy belt ‘oh my god’ and maintain the final word for 15 seconds straight. Late-career self-parody? Perhaps, however reasonably taxing on the diaphragm nonetheless. A Ken Doll of a character with the voice of an angel, Fleeshman is a standout efficiency. As is Jane Krakowski, whose wispy epiphanies about what it means ‘to be, continued’ give this extremely mental present, which regularly sacrifices character improvement on the altar of sheer witty repartee, an emotional coronary heart.
