In Washington at Ford's Theater, a production team under the artistic direction of David H. Bell has taken up residency with highly commercial results. The philosophy of Bella and company is to preserve the American musical theater, and they aim to do this by mounting at least two musicals per season--these musicals being produced "in house." Yes, to round out the season, other touring shows must be booked in, but Bells' dream has had relatively acclaimed commercial success, specifically with Godspell and the long forgotten Little Me (an old Sid Caesar vehicle). Now with larger aspirations (of New York?) fixed in their minds, they have mounted Hot Mikado, the inspiration of which was a rival set of production in the thirties with all-black casts: The Swing Mikado and The Hot Mikado, harkening back to the heyday of the Federal Theater Project.
Ford's Hot Mikado is admirable, often commendable. It is dangerous business when Gilbert and Sullivan's script, melodies, and lyrics must be largely thrown aside and used merely as a skeletal framework to accommodate the nostalgia presented. The centerpiece becomes a neon pagoda--a "Club Titipu," if you will--and this musical transubstantiation is very desirable in many instances. It also can be very strange. With no boundaries set on how to make the script transform itself to a new idiom, the audience should expect the idiotic incongruities of characters mentioning Japan and Cleveland in the same scene. Transitions between songs become lugubriously painful. Beware if you respect The Mikado text; your favorite lines likely will have vanished. (There was no hope of hearing, "I dance at cheap suburban parties for a small fee.")
Fantastic elements within the production find ways of rising above the rumpled script. Among these are "kimono zoot suits" that easily could start a fashion sensation, bridges rising over brass ponds, and gigantic ming trees covered in fans, lanterns, and lights. Truly beautiful and breathtaking, as one might imagine. The music is at its best when its rhythms work magic on the actors, and they begin to feel their way into tapping, snapping, strutting. When this happens, we too catch on. Too often, the actors must contend with worrisome choreography that is likened to TV's Solid Gold (a complaint director Bell often hears).
The characters are superlative when they find ways of resisting a mock-heaviness which seems to prevail in the form of wandering minstrel Nanki-Poo (Steven Blanchard). Even his costumes lack the resiliency of the others. Katisha (Helena-Joyce Wright), however, is the dynamic of the show, which is as it should be, with nightly ovations after her opening song. Tall and skinny, she teeter-totters over the sloping bridge on her entrance and simply says, "I come to claim my lover, Nanki-Poo." Hilarious! Ms. Wright can manage the balance of humor and pathos required and she therefore becomes a triumph.
The remaining characters often spark and delight, with outstanding tap sequences (featuring Lawrence Hamilton) and with funky bits of business (pulling out a gun and shooting the pianist). Unfortunately, the Lord High Executioner, KoKo (Frank Kopyc), is not a successful rethinking of the D'Oyly Carte characterization and is disappointing. And with most of the songs completely reorchestrated, it is interesting to note that Ko-Ko's number, "Tit Willow," is sung with faith to the original score.
The diversion created by Ford's Hot Mikado
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