THIS SONG IS WRONG, LONG, AND GETS THE GONG

Prior to curtain up at Emily’s Song, Chet Holmes’ stultifying new musical at the Hudson Theatre, his daughter, co-composer and associate producer, Amanda, entertained us with original songs that brought to mind Norah Jones. When gorgeous, sweet-voiced Amanda finished her acoustic set and introduced the show with, “I hope you brought your tissues,†the hackles on my neck exploded with fear. Shameless hype like that just as the lights go down brings to mind Napoleon’s quote: “The best way to keep one’s word is not to give it.â€

I must admit, the creators let us know what we are in for in the first fifteen minutes, for up to then there hasn’t been a musical number, the dialogue is vacuous and the characters insipid. Take the maid, Rosa, who works for jingle-writer Charlie, and his 10 year-old daughter Emily. Matronly Rosa, with her slight accent, mispronounces the word “jingle†even though she has been working in the home for over a decade. When corrected by Charlie, Rosa says, “Dingoes, Pringles, whatever.†It’s dialogue unbefitting an episode of Saved by the Bell.

The first song we hear is a Birthday gift to Emily from Charlie – the lyrics match the motivational seminar dialogue, “Make your dream come true. Follow your heart.†This song, like most in the show, sounds as if it were pulled from a trunk of 80s pop ballads, but without the hook. My theatre companion is already fidgeting and the woman next to me is heaving musical sighs that are far more amusing than anything on stage. Let’s face it kids, it ain’t “Climb Ev’ry Mountain, Ford Ev’ry Stream.â€

Next, Charlie is mugged while out of town. Somehow, the assailant’s knife causes Charlie to go into a coma (joining those audience members who may have already done the same). When he comes to, he has lost his life’s memory and the use of his voice. In his hospital room, Charlie gazes and listens while two doctors are having a lover’s quarrel – apparently, the female doctor is spending too much time with the patient. Even more absurd than two doctors fighting in front of this amnesiac is the well-placed keyboard near Charlie’s bed. Yes, there is a keyboard in the hospital room. It’s a preposterous, far-fetched situation that exceeds the gullibility of any Soap Opera enthusiast.

Lights up on young Emily, who looks as if she just exited the Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boutique in Disney World. At this point, Charlie, like the musical itself, is presumed dead. Emily is sobbing to Rosa in the home of her new legal guardians, who just happen to be poor-white-trash relatives. Poof! Emily is now a teenager and the prodigy composes a teaser of a song before our eyes while her boyfriend slugs down a beer. They have a fight and she hits the streets in her Goth-light outfit, something Madonna might have worn in Desperately Seeking Susan. Now, 45 minutes (and two incomplete songs) into the show, Emily accompanies herself with a synthesizer, singing to the streets in a pop-rock tune that mercifully ends before it develops into an actual song. For the rest of the show, all but one song belongs to Emily. What is this, Trailer Park Yentl?

From here, the soap just keeps bubbling for almost two hours more: stereotype characters and implausible premises abound, such as the tough country guy who hires Emily as a waitress (one of his exit lines is, “This dang girl talk!â€). When Charlie sings, “The way you look, the way you smile, the way you wear your hair,†to his doctor/girlfriend, you’ll notice that her wig – in fact, every wig in the show – looks as if it’s been sitting in the sun on beauty-school, window-display Styrofoam. My favorite is the slimy manager who takes Emily on a meteoric rise to fame – in 18 months, she’s a phenomenon with seven Grammy nominations: he says that opening for a hot star will be her big break. Wait, being nominated for seven Grammys isn’t a big break? Gimme a Break.

The scenes are getting shorter and shorter, shifting back and forth from Stage Left to Stage Right; it’s tantamount to watching a tennis game where the ball keeps hitting the net. In fact, many of the scenes are no longer than 30 seconds in length. The playwright notes that he trimmed his erstwhile Warner Brothers feature film project from 203 scenes down to 100, so now it’s “moving like the wind.†100 scenes?! More like gone with the wind.

Of all the talented theatre folk in Los Angeles who could have translated Emily’s Song into something new and daring (anything’s possible), writer Chet Holmes not only assigns himself the task of rewriting, but staging the thing as well. What, exactly, is Mr. Holmes showcasing here? The irony is that he seems to be showcasing the message that we can overcome our odds, yet he can not overcome his own odds as a writer and director. Either way, this is a showcase masquerading as theatre. As such, it would be foolhardy to even mention actors who are so out of place in this vehicle that we’re not even sure if they can act. Regarding Emily’s Birthday song, Charlie says, “It’s sloppy, but it’s original.†He only got it half-right.

Of course, I’m admittedly out-of-touch with audiences that favor pop ballads and romantic themes over style and plot. Certainly, I can understand a trend, even on Broadway, for escapist musicals – syrupy, superficial and sentimental soaps that hark back to the 1930s (girl loses dad, girl gets dad); the sad difference being that the 30’s had Gershwin, Berlin and Porter. As long as audiences keep attending this kind of star-driven drivel (as Emily, True Blood’s Lindsey Haun delivers some seriously powerful vocals), how and when will Los Angeles theatre become a leader in imagination, creativity and genesis? Some say that we get the leaders we deserve; perhaps we are getting the art we deserve.

tonyfrankel @ stageandcinema.com

photos by Ed Krieger

Emily’s Song
scheduled to close February 27 at time of publication
for tickets, visit http://www.emilyssong.com/