Directing American Stage’s “Ragtime” outdoors at Demens Landing forced director Erica Sutherlin to “face the notion of the American Dream.” Are we actually becoming ‘we the people’—a true nation?” Optimistically she wants us “to look beyond hatred and turmoil. To look toward possibility.”

Good luck with that one.

E. L. Doctorow’s 1975 novel is an extraordinary tapestry, a panoramic view of the dawning of the 20th century from the perspective nearer the millennium’s end.

Ragtime confronts many issues: immigration, racism, socialism, women’s rights, industrialization, and the labor movement. Sadly, little progress has been made even in 2023. We may no longer tolerate the open use of the N-word, but we still seem incapable of arresting Black men and boys (I still shed a tear for Tamir Rice) without killing them.

Also, inexplicably, we’re denying bodily autonomy for women and targeting mifepristone even in states where abortion remains legal. Plus, even though we’re all immigrants, fear mongering politicians continue to feed the same prejudicial myths; only the countries have changed since 1906.

The play’s three-threaded “emotional, jaunty, song-and-dance experience” focuses on a white WASP woman married into privilege, a ragtime musician from Harlem whose insistence on a point of justice drives him to revolutionary violence, and a widowed immigrant Jewish peddler and his young daughter.

As in the novel the line between fantasy and historical fact, between real and imaginary characters, disappears with the inclusion of Booker T. Washington (a charismatic Clinton Harris), Henry Ford (Cody Taylor), Emma Goldman (rousing Beth Gelman), J.P. Morgan (Derek Baxter), Harry Houdini (Anthony Gervais) and Evelyn Nesbit (an enthusiastic Laura McKenna).

Music Director Latoya McCormick, reigning Theatre Tampa Bay award winner for “Crowns,” leads a tight, well-drilled nine-piece band while Sutherlin guides her superb cast of 23 with a sure hand; they’re vocally strong and dramatically focused.

Choreographer Heather Beal delivers beautifully, especially in “Henry Ford,” where a Model T assembly line comes to life or the exuberant “What a Game”—ode to baseball. The star of the show is Teresa L. Williams stunning deconstructed Statue of Liberty set brilliantly lit by Dalton Hamilton, who surprises us with color and texture throughout the show.

The WASP-y New Rochelle family of Sarah Middough (Mother), Larry Alexander (Father), Matthew Harper Stevenson (Younger Brother), and Martin Powers (Little Boy) create distinct compelling characters who drive the narrative. Billy Goldstein (Tateh) is touching as the immigrant father.

Dante Murray (Coalhouse Walker) and Leah Stewart (Sarah) have the requisite vocal chops, but their ballad, “Wheels of a Dream,” fails to soar because the sound design robs them of the opportunity to ride the appropriate emotional wave (see below).

With so many strengths, it’s also unfathomable to me how a few obvious faux pas were allowed to jar our suspension of disbelief. Whenever a swaddled baby appears onstage, audiences know and accept that it’s a doll and not a real child. But as a grandfather, I know something about dolls—and child development. It’s bad enough that the abandoned baby that Mother discovers in the flower bed looks like a rigid loaf of bread, but it fails to grow or change over many months—even until Coalhouse asks if his son is walking.

Likewise, in an otherwise stunning set design, how is the stage right railing of unadorned steel pipe and fittings allowed to pass? Or stagehands clad in blue jeans and/or emblazoned tee-shirts; we accept that crew must assist in moving scenery, but is it really so hard to dress in all black so as not to draw focus? And the gender blind casting of Mona Lim (Grandfather) adds nothing.

Most importantly, much like the Straz’s Morsani Hall where Broadway musicals also go to die, the sound is atrocious. Proper sound reinforcement should largely go unnoticed, even outdoors. The voices should seem to emanate from the actors who are speaking or singing. The orchestra should be clear and balanced as not to overpower the performers.

I’ve just returned from a week of Broadway where the sound was superb and as described. I was in the cheap seats and yet there was the opportunity for a complete dynamic range of vocals, from a single whisper to a soaring chorus growing to a thunderous crescendo.

Sadly, this whole production is over-amplified, shrill, and distorted, especially when the entire company is singing. When you have a cast and musicians of this high caliber, it’s a shame to rob the artists of all nuance. I feel compelled to share that I’ve been similarly incensed at the Kennedy Center and in London’s West End when careless or clueless sound ruined otherwise well-conceived shows.

So finally, I confess I’ve never been a fan of Demens Landing as a venue because almost any show seems dwarfed to my eyes and ears, but “Ragtime” is particularly egregious. I know many patrons love the chance to picnic and see a show in the park on a grand scale.

What I wish readers would do is to go see the work of this fine company in the intimate Raymond James Theatre space on 3rd Street, where you’ll be swept away with a breadth and depth of emotion impossible outdoors. Start with the upcoming Pulitzer Prize winning “Disgraced” or, better yet, subscribe to new Producing Artistic Director, Helen R. Murray’s exciting new season, which opens with “Indecent,” Paula Vogel’s moving portrait of forbidden love.