New York theatre
Who dunnit?
Douglas Colby on the strange case of the folding mystery-musical
The essence of a good mystery — intri- cate plotting and cunning twists — is cere- bral, whereas that of a musical — songs and dances that encapsulate human joy and sorrow — is emotional. Conflict between the two genres is why it is notoriously diffi- cult to create a crossbreed, a satisfying mystery-musical. Nick & Nora, which gave new life to the team of husband-and-wife detectives in Dashiell Hammett's The Thin Man, opened last month to negative reviews and closed after nine performances at a huge financial loss. Yet it may well have been the most ambitious pursuit to date of a solution to the problem and this, in part, is what made it so pleasurable. By setting forth clues to its whodunnit in song forms that were original and devilish — sometimes mock-operetta, sometimes Thir- ties popular song — it lifted the appeal of its plotline to the level of challenge. On a grander scale, by questioning the couple's impregnable marriage, it found an inge- nious link for the wedding of two forms. Instead of settling for the sophisticated sur- face — repartee and smart teamwork — of William Powell and Myrna Loy in the fond- ly remembered movie series, it dug deeper to a connubial bed of suspicious power- play, the stuff of musical theatre.
Arthur Laurents, author of Gypsy and West Side Story as well as the Hitchcock thriller Rope, has in the past straddled both worlds with masterly distinction. Here, con- tributing his first libretto in 24 years and serving as his own director, he devised an original storyline for his complex purposes. Nora's finishing-school chum, now a movie actress, approaches Nora to get her current director off charges of murder. The film production's bookkeeper, a Jean Harlow- like floozy, has been fatally shot and the émigré director is first on a list of suspects that also includes the philandering produc- er, his sanctimonious high-society wife, the president of a film union, the victim's les- bian Latin lover and a line of others that extends — for hidden good reasons — as far as a Broadway chorus.
When reconstructed variations of the crime are played out in Nick and Nora's imaginations, the cascade of dark motives sparks in Nora her own potential for stray- ing and, in turn, Nick's increased tendency to drink. Nora, wanting to lead in this dance of love and sleuthing, demands the case for herself. Investigating the crime, and herself as well, she becomes romanti- cally drawn to the suave union head, an old flame. Needless to say, by the conclusion the married couple meet each other anew and only through reinstated teamwork solve the mystery.
On top of this intriguing foundation Lau- rents laid a playful structure of mystery conventions integrated with those of musi- cal theatre — disguises, coded names, even a suggested doppelganger established in song. A particularly apt device had the sus- pects deliver spotlighted self-disclosures, evoking A Chorus Line. What at first is only implied materialises into a witty second-act
showstopper in which the round-up of sus- pects strut their stuff, each outfitted in 'an overcoat with a velvet collar and a hom- burg hat' known to be worn by the killer. By balancing parody with respect for each genre, Laurents managed never to lose the crucial element of suspense.
The music by Charles Strouse, composer of Bye Bye Birdie and Annie, reached its
highpoint in the opener 'Is There Anything Better Than Dancing?' in which swirling chromaticism seemed to wrap up Nick and Nora in the eternal search for love and buried secrets. The rest was tasteful, tune- ful, and appropriate to its milieu if, in the romantic sections, lacking the edge of per- sonal tension. Richard Maltby's lyrics were gems, elegant mind-twisters that accom- plished in miniature what Laurents achieved overall. 'People Get Hurt', in Which the producer's menacing wife turns a description of her scandalised family into a blasé dismissal of the murder and then into a warning to Nick and Nora to stay off the case, was a model of triple-play brilliance.
As Nick and Nora, Barry Bostwick and Joanna Gleason faced the impossible task of supplanting our memory of Powell and Loy. Individually Bostwick had the right laid-back charm and Gleason the glint-in- the-eye readiness, but together they lacked chemistry. It was actors cast as suspects or victims in the crime who stole the show, especially Debra Monk as the producer's Beacon Hill wife and Faith Prince as the kicked-around bookkeeper-corpse.
Perhaps in the current climate for musi- cals, where audiences have grown accus- tomed to bombardment of the senses through mind-numbing effects, this throw- back demanded too much concentration.
But the overwhelming negative response to the show remains a mystery. Did its place- ment in the Marquis Theatre — the new, huge and stone-cold auditorium — make the necessary intimacy an impossibility? .Did musical-lovers recoil from logic, while mystery buffs withdrew from romance'? During the troubled preview period, did assassin mentality in the theatre communi- ty — daily press coverage and scuttlebutt — prove too much for the gestating show to overcome'? Whatever the reason, its fail- ure is a pity, not only because it was one of the few good American musicals in several seasons, but also because it was the first ever to make a case for singing detectives.
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