Matthew Murphy
Since recorded time, Broadway critics would casually dismiss certain lighthearted musical comedies as a “tired businessman show.” Such trifles would include long-stemmed chorus girls, broad gags and catchy songs aimed at the office drone who simply wants to unwind with earworms and eye candy. Dear reader, this critic is the tired businessman. Perhaps we all are, bleary and thumbsore from doomscrolling, exhausted by endless End Time headlines. And so, who wouldn’t perk up at volcanic trouper Robyn Hurder doing her best Marilyn Monroe in the iconic filmy white dress, or leggy and vivacious Caroline Bowman belting out a Shaiman & Wittman power ballad? How can you fail to giggle at Brooks Ashmanskas’s infinite variations on the bitchy punch line? Smash is 100% escapist fluff and wow, do we need it.
True, it’s a fine line between a flop and a smash. Both involve velocity and gravity, with the former splatting on the ground and the other bouncing to success. The new musical from a gold-plated creative team and a cast to die for commands not-insignificant levels of bounce. Unlike the short-lived NBC series from which Smash has been loosely adapted, this material is dished up to an audience hungry for it: Broadway geeks who understand when I say Smash opens like The Producers and ends like the first scene of The Prom. Not surprising, since the show is brightly directed by Susan Stroman of Producers fame and stars Ashmanskas, who basically ran away with The Prom. All three titles orbit around making or recovering from a musical-theater turkey.
Here, the disaster waiting to happen is a glitzy biomusical about Marilyn Monroe called Bombshell. Book writers Bob Martin (The Drowsy Chaperone) and Rick Elice (Jersey Boys) take us inside rehearsal studios where a small army of artists sweats to get Bombshell ready for tech and previews. These greasepaint pros include Ashmanskas as weary, wisecracking director Nigel; Krysta Rodriguez and John Behlmann as a husband-and-wife team—lyricist Tracy and composer Jerry; and ex-actress now imperious producer Anita (Jacqueline B. Arnold) and her assistant, Gen Z twit Scott (Nicholas Matos). The show-within-a-show cast of Bombshell is headed by beloved star Ivy Lynn (Hurder) and her friend and longtime understudy, Karen (Bowman). There’s even a third, shadow diva thrown into the mix, assistant director Chloe (Bella Coppola), an ex-chorus-girl with a rafter-shaking belt.
At first, there’s plenty of charm but not much drama. The lyricist and composer are nervous second-guessers (new opening? more depth?), but that’s nothing new. Nigel has to massage egos and avoid flirting with a chorus twink, and Anita grumbles about budget. Perpetually positive Karen doesn’t seem to resent the understudy life and bakes cupcakes for everyone. What could possibly be the snake in this Times Square Eden? Cue Tracy lending Ivy a book about Marilyn Monroe’s study of The Method at the Actors Studio, written by ancient, sinister guru Susan Proctor (Kristine Nielsen, mugging queen). Ivy devours the book and seeks out the author, who worms her way into Ivy’s confidence with Benzedrine pills and thespian woo-woo. Soon, the black-robed “witch” is disrupting Bombshell rehearsals and turning Ivy into a delusional kook who only answers to “Marilyn.” Yes, in Smash, Sue Proctor is the villain.
Even for a transparently silly musical comedy it’s an absurd premise—leading lady goes nuts but recovers her wits by the end. Still, you can forgive the flimsiness of the book for occasioning so many first-rate comic performances and Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman’s best overall score since Hairspray. Many of these big, juicy showstoppers were road-tested 13 years ago on TV, but their jazzy workmanship holds up: the double-entendre-stuffed baseball romp “National Pastime,” Karen’s bluesy lament “They Just Keep Moving the Line,” and the Kander-and-Ebbish ode to sin, “Let’s Be Bad.” Curiously, several songs take the form of pleading imperatives: “Don’t Forget Me,” “(Let’s Start) Tomorrow Night” or the fame-ravening anthem, “Let Me Be Your Star.” It’s not so much “I Want” as “Want Me.”
The writers deserve special praise for the clever and consistent use of diegesis. (Theater kids, pardon while I explain.) Surprisingly not a skin condition, diegesis is when music happens in a scene within the reality of the scene, not imposed as a formal break. Character switches on the radio and pop tune plays: that’s diegetic music. Character at a party pulls out a guitar and sings: same. The neat thing about Smash is that nearly all its musical numbers are justified as glimpses into rehearsals and previews. Except for the very end, where the reality of the world bends and breaks into a musical—as Nigel and the others discuss making a musical about making a musical about Marilyn Monroe. These folks never meta in-joke they wouldn’t milk.
For all its showbiz shine and genuine laughs, Smash has its flaws. The plot engine, as noted, is paper thin. Ivy and Karen’s conflict gets too blithely resolved: a reconciliation in Ivy’s dressing room could have dug deeper, found an emotional center of sisterhood. Likewise, one misses a husband-and-wife duet for Tracy and Jerry on marriage and collaboration. Martin and Elice’s depiction of alcohol and pill abuse edges toward tacky. But it’s a phenomenal cast and Stroman delivers her most dazzling, fluid staging in years, immensely aided by Joshua Bergasse’s frisky, high-kicking choreography. After years burning up the boards in Moulin Rouge! The Musical and elsewhere, thrice-blessed Robyn Hurder finally gets the starring role she was born to sing, dance, and act the hell out of. Will Smash live up to its name? Who knows; how many tired businessmen you got?
Smash | 2hrs 30mins. One intermission. | Imperial Theatre | 249 West 45th Street | 212-239-6200 | Buy Tickets Here
