The songs speak volumes in Midnight at the Never Get (★★★★☆), expressing feelings that crooner Trevor Copeland (Sam Bolen) and pianist Arthur Brightman (Christian Douglas) might otherwise never admit to themselves, each other, or the world. Arthur writes the songs and Trevor sings them, but both of their stories, and an era of LGBTQ history, flow through their fateful collaboration.
The musical — conceived by Bolen, writer/composer/lyricist Mark Sonnenblick, and Max Friedman, who directed the original Off-Broadway production — depicts a version of Trevor and Arthur’s partnership as Trevor remembers it. His memory often fails him, as he regales his audience at the Never Get, a backroom boîte in Greenwich Village, with a tale of love, loss, and, he hopes, reunion.
Part solo reminiscence, part loving double act, the show offers a handful of wrenching plot twists that deepen Trevor’s stroll down selective memory lane. Director Matthew Gardiner stages the flashes back and sideways smoothly, with his handsome leads in tuxes always commanding the Never Get’s cabaret stage.
Ryan Hickey’s sound design doesn’t always serve the digital streaming presentation well — viewers might want to keep the volume control handy — but on the visual side, Adam Honoré’s lighting is gorgeous and full of character, while the film crew of Chiet Productions have done a wonderful job capturing the atmosphere and pacing of live performance.
Finessing every turn, Bolen takes his Trevor from joy to heartbreak and back again, usually in a single song, and certainly over the 95 minutes or so the singer spends baring his soul. Lending his songman the style of both chipper entertainer and fey, torchy crooner, Bolen creates a bright, distinctive musical persona in Trevor Copeland.
Well attuned to Sonnenblick’s jazzy score, he sounds big and confident backed by the full six-piece band, including Douglas, terrific on the piano, if a bit less so on the numbers where only the keys accompany him.
Sometimes, though, that quiver in Trevor’s voice merely tells more of the story of his and Arthur’s pained romance. What we see before us is “all that is left of Mr. Trevor Copeland,” according to an off-stage emcee, voiced by Bobby Smith, who also makes a powerful onstage appearance late in the show, in a character turn that adds even further dimension to this tale of “love irrational or unrequited.”
Taking off from the night in 1963 when the pair meet at a Greenwich Village bar, the script poignantly weaves ’60s gay and pop culture through their romance as both vivid background and motivation for character. Arthur and Trevor, headlining at a gay bar in an era when gay bars were illegal, disagree on how to be out and active in the gay rights movement. Arthur, convincingly played by Douglas as a gay man intent on upholding an image of manliness, nevertheless espouses some radical views.
While he preaches respectability politics to the rowdy hippies who crash their shows, he remains boldly queer, insisting that he and Trevor shouldn’t alter the pronouns or the meaning in their songs. They’re gay love songs, and should be sung that way.
“Don’t let the world shape our love, let our love shape the world,” he tells Trevor. Still, he might not have the strength and will to live up to his own words — and given Trevor’s hazy memory, he might not ever have said them.
Midnight at the Never Get is available on Marquee TV for streaming on-demand through June 21. Tickets for a 72-hour viewing window are $35. Visit www.sigtheatre.org.
Just when I was ready to declare that Joker: Folie à Deux isn’t a musical, it turned into one. Despite any confusion or misdirection that preceded its release, and notwithstanding that the film eases slowly into having its characters say their piece in song, director Todd Phillips’ sequel to his grim 2019 hit Joker eventually does let its musical-loving freak flag fly.
Though, unlike the Hollywood musicals the movie references through posters, clips, and song and design choices, Folie à Deux doesn’t exude joy or winsome romance. It’s been two years since the events of Joker, and Gotham City is still the same old miserable metropolis.
When I started reviewing theater for the Hill Rag in 1984, as a wide-eyed novice to the local performing arts scene, I remember thinking, "How much theater could there be to fill a weekly column?" A lot, it turned out.
I still mourn the loss of the companies I once frequented, among them Leslie Jacobson's Horizons and Bart Whiteman's Source, where the work was always challenging, insightful, and fueled by passion and purpose.
By the same token, I marveled at the slow but steady growth of companies like Woolly Mammoth, who went from performing in a church on G Street to operating their own gorgeous downtown space.
Billie Holiday is onstage dwindling before our eyes, struggling to sustain the fire that brought her to this moment. She's already told her audience, "You can only get to where you're at by way of where you've been," and this iconic performer has been to hell and back -- whorehouses, prison, addiction, heartache -- but she's still here, barely.
The Billie Holiday portrayed in Lanie Robertson's Lady Day at Emerson's Bar & Grill comprises a fascinating, tragic triple image, a performance of a performer performing the role of someone who isn't still messed up on heroin.
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