The singers are superb. Heather Baird, Alison Burns, Heather Krueger and Kali Rabaut have wonderful voices, and whether crooning singly or together, the results are delicious. In the ’50s knee-length dresses of Act One, and then in the ’60s miniskirts of Act Two (all costumes by Krueger), these fine femmes give us “Mr. Sandman,” “Allegheny Moon,” “Dream Lover,” “Son of a Preacher Man” and “It’s My Party (And I’ll Cry If I Want To),” along with a dozen more hit songs, each handled with real commitment and brio. On Amanda Bearss’s simple but attractive set — a raised, carpeted platform with four full-length microphones, backed by a sign welcoming the Class of 1958 to its Senior Prom, and later (in Act Two) to its 10th Reunion — Baird, Burns, Krueger, and Rabaut instantly win our admiration and (to name another of their songs) “Respect.” I could hear them sing all night.
Next, the bad news.
The scripted comedy in this jukebox musical (more a cabaret than a mainstage entertainment) is juvenile and, worse still, not funny. From the start, when we’re supposed to laugh at chipmunks and lollipops, through the endless sections where we’re supposed to find Krueger’s harassment of Baird hilarious, the jokes fall flat and the hijinks fail to charm. This is silliness, not inspired like Monty Python’s but puerile like The Three Stooges’. I wish I could say that the songs dominate our attention, but the fact is, a lot of stage time is given to author Roger Bean’s plot, which makes Mamma Mia! look like Marat/Sade. What a waste of good talent. What a sorry setting for the melodies.
Which brings me to the subject of missed opportunities.
First, imagine the premise: in Act One, we see four high school students in 1958, regaling us with top girl and girl-group songs of the time. Now, think about 1958: The threat of Soviet and Chinese communism, the nuclear menace, rampant racism, sexism, homophobia, anti-Semitism. The early Civil Rights movement. Raw memories of the Korean War, the Rosenberg Trial, McCarthyism, Sputnik. Cuban rebels in Havana. Wouldn’t it have been powerful if playwright Bean had tried to place the escapism of the ’50s girl group phenomenon into this frame? Wouldn’t it have been useful to juxtapose “Lipstick On Your Collar” with the attempt to desegregate the schools in Little Rock?
And then it’s 1968: riots in the inner cities, the Black Panthers, the Vietnam War, hippies, LSD, the assassinations of Dr. King and Robert Kennedy, the nuclear standoff, the election of Richard Nixon, feminism, Apollo 8 orbits the moon. Wouldn’t it have been helpful if writer Bean had shown us how much more politically savvy our four heroines have become after 10 years of delirious change in this country? Wouldn’t something, anything about these changes helped us reconsider a song like “Rescue Me”? But instead the twentysomething women of Act Two act exactly like the teenaged girls of Act One, worried about nothing but marrying their dreamboat. Why haven’t they matured even a little?
And for that matter, why, in 1968, are we hearing from Dusty Springfield but not Janis Joplin or Grace Slick?
But, hey, you be the critic. Here, for your own consideration, are some of the events in The Marvelous Wonderettes, as directed by Karla Hartley. One character blows soap bubbles at another while the latter sings. A meaningless vote is taken in the audience as to who should be named Prom Queen. An audience member is sung to as if he were the teenagers’ high school teacher. A pregnant singer (1968) bursts into tears at every provocation. The women repeatedly ask each other three questions: Are you in love? Is it someone we know? Is he here? Instead of “White Rabbit,” we hear “Wedding Bell Blues.”
Nothing about Betty Friedan. Nothing about Gloria Steinem. Apparently, all women really care about is "Marry Me, Bill."
Yes, the singing is splendid. I loved Baird’s rendition of “Son of a Preacher Man.” When the four women harmonize, the effect is stirring. I appreciated the four distinct personae of the women: Baird the most sophisticated, Burns the organizer, Krueger the born troublemaker, Rabaut the most put-upon.
But I missed Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, Rachel Carson.
And somewhere Angela Davis was threatening to bring the whole house down around our feet.
This article appears in Oct 5-12, 2017.