If there's one thing I've learned in these years of reviewing, it's that good theater music is hard to come by. Yes, I know we're supposed to have masterpieces in our presence: Phantom and Les Miz and Miss Saigon and Rent, to name a few. But I remember long stretches during each of these when I was undeniably (and unfashionably) bored by repetitive, uninspired, instantly forgettable tunes. Still, I love a good musical, and can reel off the names of a dozen favorite shows, from The Music Man, West Side Story and Hair to Camelot, Cabaret and Beauty and the Beast. (That's only six, you say? All right: Oklahoma!, Man of La Mancha, Gigi, My Fair Lady, Fiddler on the Roof and The Threepenny Opera.) What all these have in common is satisfying melody, not just once in an act, not just in the climax before intermission, but from first to last, as if from an inexhaustible store. Watching any of these shows, you'd think the composer's art a facile one: You merely walk out onto the sidewalk, and the memorable tunes fall like confetti. Then you keep nine or 10 to use in the show. Then you have lunch.
Alas, it's not that easy. As Side Show at Tampa's Gorilla Theatre currently demonstrates, it takes a miracle to make a Richard Rodgers or a Leonard Bernstein. Not that Henry Krieger's music doesn't have its better moments — as in the songs "We Share Everything" and "One Plus One Equals Three." Problem is, these better moments are notably few, and for most of the show we find ourselves starving for a tune that we wouldn't mind hearing twice. True, the Gorilla production is visually spectacular, the actors are talented and their singing voices are mostly excellent. Lino Toyos' multileveled theater-in-the-round set merges audience and cast ingeniously, and Laura Simcox's colorful costumes skillfully transport us from a carnival freak show to the more elegant world of vaudeville. But the music, the music … this show is about 90 percent sung. What's the use of all the rest if so much of the music is unimpressive?
And there's a problem with the book too: There aren't enough incidents here to justify a full-length play. Side Show is the story of a very few moments in the lives of Siamese Twins Daisy and Violet Hilton. The action begins when ambitious usher Buddy convinces talent scout Terry that the Hilton twins might, with some voice training, become a legitimate vaudeville act. Terry runs with the idea after a brief hesitation, and the next thing you know, the girls have graduated from singing class and are auditioning for the big time.
The audition goes well, they become successes, and, wouldn't you know it, Violet's in love with singing teacher Terry. There's some question as to whether he's willing to marry her — and then the show suddenly ends. What we haven't seen might have made for a complete experience: the path that led the Hilton pair to a freak show in the first place, the difficulties of teaching them to sing, the methods they use to ensure privacy from one another, the challenge of being accepted by the press and public as legitimate stars. With all of this left out, Side Show, even at two hours, feels fragmentary. Maybe playwright and lyricist Bill Russell thought that his subject matter was so fascinating it didn't need much dramatization.
But enough complaining: There are virtues to Side Show that amply deserve acknowledgement. First there's the acting, which is almost universally excellent. Best of all are Ned Snell as talent scout Terry, Jon Van Middlesworth as singing teacher and romantic interest Buddy, Erick Pinnick (a wonderful singer) as smitten-with-Violet Jake, and Allen Baker as the freak show Boss. I'm particularly impressed by Van Middlesworth, who was so funny in Theatre Hell a few months ago, and who now shows himself to be a talented, serious actor and singer. Gaelan Gilliland and Maria Couch as twins Daisy and Violet are more than competent vocalists, but neither actress provides much dimensionality to her character; maybe the problem is that those dimensions aren't in the script either. Brent Smock's kinetic staging is a real strength, though: By sending his actors virtually into the audience, Smock makes the small Gorilla space seem unusually capacious.
And finally, I should mention that the Side Show script does have strengths, however isolated they may be. For example, there's a fine scene at a fashionable party, where Daisy and Violet have to field prying questions from snobbish guests. "Don't you want to be normal?" asks one guest, and Violet replies, "Don't you?" And there's a very brief scene in which film director Tod Browning offers to put the Hiltons in a movie. Just when their excitement is at its height, Daisy asks the movie's name. Browning replies, devastatingly: "Freaks." These moments offer glimpses of what Side Show might have been: a searching examination of what's really normal and what's not, and how we tend to dehumanize those who don't fit our standards. But that's assuming that playwright Russell saw the philosophical implications of the story he chose to dramatize. And in fact, there's little evidence that he did. Which is a pity, really. Because Daisy and Violet Hilton really existed, and their lives would make a fine subject for a serious artwork — maybe a play (by Mac Wellman?), maybe a novel (by E.L. Doctorow?). Russell and Krieger haven't fully done the job here. But at least they've rescued the celebrated Hilton sisters from an undeserved oblivion. And maybe they've intrigued another writer somewhere — someone who might show us what really matters about these fascinating twins who refused to remain in the freak show to which society assigned them. Now, that could be an important, relevant American story.
But it's not Side Show.
From Russia to Texas. Opening this weekend at American Stage is Mark Harelik's The Immigrant, about a Russian Jew who, in the early 1900s, comes to rural Hamliton, Texas. The play is based on the true story of Harelik's grandfather, Haskell Harelik, who also had to find his way through a world of fear, prejudice and preconceptions.
The Immigrant runs from Nov. 9-Dec. 2. Show times are 7:30 p.m. Wednesdays and Thursdays, 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, and 3 p.m. Saturdays and Sundays (but there's no Saturday show this weekend). Tickets are $20-$30. American Stage is located at 211 Third St. S., St. Petersburg. Call 727-823-PLAY.
This article appears in Nov 8-14, 2001.