By Catherine Wagley
By Channing Sargent
By L.A. Weekly critics
By Amanda Lewis
By Catherine Wagley
By Carol Cheh
By Keegan Hamilton
By Bill Raden
|Photo by Neal Preston|
The story -- set in 1930 and adapted from Christopher Isherwood's Berlin Stories and John van Druten's Broadway hit adaptation, I Am a Camera-- concerns a writer from America named Clifford Bradshaw (in van Druten's play, he's English and is tellingly named Chris) who is struggling as much artistically as financially, and who hopes to brush away his creative cobwebs by hanging out for a while in Berlin.
The German social fabric is in tatters, rather like the German economy; inflation and starvation are rampant, and National Socialism is on the rise. It is against this backdrop that Bradshaw (Rick Holmes) frequents a lurid cabaret called the Kit Kat Club, a front for prostitution, where he befriends a British headliner of dubious talent and questionable integrity named Sally Bowles (Hatcher), whom her English friends might call a free spirit or a slag, depending on their mood. Sooner than later, Bowles is sharing Bradshaw's threadbare room, though he mostly ducks her amorous advances.
In I Am a Camera, Chris' sexual reluctance strikes an ambiguous chord, perhaps merely a variation on the theme of No Sex Please, We're British. But Cabaretin general, and Mendes' rendition in particular, brings the writer out of the closet. In fact, Mendes' Kit Kat Club is cloaked in the smoke of homoerotic debauchery, along with other "forbidden" proclivities -- from a shadow-play depiction of sodomy and fist-fucking, to Norbert Leo Butz's tattooed and pierced-nippled MC, to the lithe dancers costumed by William Ivey Long as though from the Pleasure Chest, in frilly silk undies, black leather jackets, high heels, garter belts and fishnet stockings. They glare and sneer (and may even hiss), turning their backs on us, legs apart, before glancing over their shoulders and slapping their buttocks. (Cynthia Onrubia and Rob Marshall are both credited with the choreography.) One song has Bowles dressed as a schoolgirl perched on a kind of highchair -- a child molester's wet dream.
Bowles gets pregnant and unpregnant, Bradshaw's landlady (Barbara Andres) marries a sweet Jewish fruit seller (Dick Latessa), and then the Brown Shirts arrive, singing "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" -- never a good omen, that song. As in the New York staging, the interior of the L.A. venue has been re-configured with benches and table seatings for four, in order to replicate the cabaret ambiance. Robert Brill's set is a double-tiered iron-grid affair, which allows the action to pop up all over the place, keeping things lively.
But there's a hole in the bucket, and it's not Hatcher's vacuous performance as Bowles. (Hatcher has charisma and baby-doll beauty aplenty, but little in the way of style -- an obvious consequence of her lack of stage training. Her gestures have a cinematic subtlety that simply doesn't read in this Broadway-size house; her singing voice is remedial, while her line readings -- though certainly animated -- feel generic rather than nuanced.) Nor does the heart of the problem lie with Butz's unremarkable though capable MC, or with an ensemble that fails somehow to ignite (through no fault of those terrific dancers). Latessa and Jeanine Morick, as the hooker down the hall, possess the only great voices in this company.
Despite these impediments, the stage pictures are appealing enough to entertain even the most jaded spectator. Entertain, but not provoke -- and therein lies the problem. While most critics have found Mendes' concept shocking and fresh, this production is really only one or two degrees lustier than a Victoria's Secret fashion show -- all saucy stares and titillating costumes -- and just barely coated with end-of-the-empire grime à la George Grosz, from whose "degenerate" sketches this version derives. No, this Cabaretisn't brave. It's flashy, gaudy, ribald and, ultimately, trivial. When the Nazis roll in, they're like bullies crashing a party at Hef's pad.
The British, at least, can blame their excessive zeal over Mendes' staging on their collective sexual repression. These are, after all, the same people who went into blissful delirium after a peek at Nicole Kidman's bare bottom in the London production of David Hare's The Blue Room(also directed by Mendes). The New York critics, meanwhile, focused on Kidman's wooden performance -- evidence of their comparative levelheadedness. So what's their excuse for Cabaret?
MANY YEARS AGO, THE IVAR THEATER IN HOLLYWOOD (now vacant after being occupied and abandoned by the Inner City Cultural Center) was a strip joint. I went there once, and the memory is indelible. The place was a dark, smoky echo chamber -- not unlike the Wilshire Theater's redesign for Cabaret. Near the center of the cavernous interior was a single runway, adjacent to which sat a clump of men, their faces just about level with the floor of the stage. There were tables and chairs farther back, but not enough patrons to fill them. As dance music warbled from a warped tape, a nude woman wrapped her limbs around a customer, gyrating her spine with an expression of unmitigated fatigue. I remember another dancer arriving in a trench coat. Suddenly, that single garment was on the floor -- so much for striptease -- and she sat cross-legged, exposing her privates to a single, presumably generous tipper, from whom she never shifted her attention until she retrieved her coat and clumped off the stage. These women were neither svelte nor particularly sexy. The theater was a chamber of desperation, a mausoleum for souls -- on and off the runway -- so bereft of dignity and hope that had Nazis marched in to clean the place up, you might even have thought that it would at least be an improvement.