Let me warn you about the musical Smash right away: Think of this show as a very well-endowed, gifted lover that will have its way with you, with deft and startling moves, then leave you panting for more and humming “Why Was I Born?”
And like that lover, Smash will have you wanting to come back for more.
Another critic correctly pointed out that Smash is a mystery, and the question has to do with who will be a star. I must confess that I did not see a single episode of the television series also known as Smash, but the word is that it was a mess of a melodrama, Douglas Sirk overdosed on poppers and original cast recordings. I came to the musical (at the Imperial) with only the expectation that I was about to see an unapologetic and big and glorious musical. Don’t call it old-fashioned, which seems pejorative. Old-fashioned this musical is, in the sense that you sit there and realize that goblets of Champagne are being lifted to Jerome Robbins and Joe Layton and Joshua Logan and Jerry Herman. (I could go on, but I’d rather you go and see for yourself.) Director Susan Stroman and choreographer Joshua Bergasse are very present practitioners, but they remember the folks they passed on the road to where they are. Homage? I don’t know. Tribute? Who cares. Just lie back and let them have their way with you.
Here is a spoiler: Smash is full of stars, and the fun game being played in the aisles, the lobby, and outside of the Imperial is who triumphed. When Robyn Hurder, as Ivy Lynn as Marilyn Monroe throws aside her outer garment and reveals her luscious body in a glittery gown designed by Alejo Vietti with a toast to Jean Louis, you think, She’s the star. But then each time Brooks Ashmanskas comes on stage, nailing every line and offering body language that made me smile thinking of how pneumatic and fully joyful he and Robert Morse always have been when their feet meet a stage. He’s the star. But wait. Bella Coppola sings a snatch in a rehearsal scene, and you realize she’s the star. (She later has a full song, alone, center stage, and packs up the entire show. She’s the star.) But no, Caroline Bowman sings “They Just Keep Moving the Line,” and the house erupts, and you realize how dumb you have been. She’s the star. But there’s a couple, a sort of homage to Comden and Green and Ruth Gordon and Garson Kanin and everyone who ever submitted to the theatre, and you rush to their sides. I’m talking about Krysta Rodriguez and John Behlmann, and here’s what the explicators behind me said about them: “Did you see her Liza [in Dan Minahan’s Halston for Netflix]? She’s the new Bernadette Peters.” And of Mr. Behlmann: “He gets me wet every time I see him,” to which her mate replied “Heard that.” They are stars. But no, it’s Jacqueline B. Arnold as a chic and wise producer who silkily steals every scene. Is she the breakout star? Or is it the aesthetic orgasm that is Nicholas Matos as her nepo-baby assistant? (He doesn’t know who Julie Andrews is, but you automatically volunteer to educate him on this.) Or is it Kristine Nielsen, in a savage and apt take on Paula Strasberg, lurching around in black, speaking in pear-shaped tones about utter nonsense of truth and being? Yes, she’s the star. No, I’m wrong, it’s when a stage full of beautifully buffed male dancers take over the stage in a steam-room number (I see you, Joshua Logan, and I miss you), and impure thoughts compete with the addictive lyrics.
I give up. There is no way to really capture an evening like Smash. How do you remember every detail of a passionate session of lovemaking? Who are the seduced here at the Imperial? All the great musicals and everyone who ever loved one. All the great jokes about working in the theatre. (I raised another glass to Larry Gelbart, who hoped once that Hitler was alive and well and on the road with a musical.) All the biographies of Marilyn Monroe, most of which are gibberish, but most of which remembered her curiosity about what is done with the rest of the matzo. All the inside jokes of the theatre and the people who make it and love it. (If you take a sippy cup of booze into the Imperial and take a swig every time an inside joke lands, you’ll be smashed by the end of Act One. Happily, I might add.)
Look, I’m a mess after seeing Smash. I went in slugged. (Aren’t we all a bit depressed round about now?) I came out seduced. Does the show lack anything? For me, yes. I dream of a scene between Kristine Nielsen as the ghoulish acting coach and Robyn Hurder that shows us when their seduction began. I wanted to see when Nielsen’s charlatan of indication ensorcelled the vulnerable actress. But, hey, we don’t see the seduction, but we see the results, and they are pretty flawless. I also think Smash ends too abruptly, as if everyone on stage wanted to get to a good party at a restaurant with a kitchen that closes at ten p.m. But, c’mon, this is a musical that begins with people inhaling cupcakes, and the sugar rush begins, and sugar rushes end in a crash. It happens. You have the rush. I can’t really complain about Smash. It’s messy, but most great seductions are, and I’m not going to complain about a couple of stains on the sheets when I’ve been this sated. (The music and lyrics of Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman will now reside next to the work of Bryan Ferry as seduction music.)
Meet me on West 45th one night and you tell me who came out the star.
P.S. In the tradition of critics like Richard Schickel and Rex Reed who invoked God when they spoke of awards, let me say this: If Brooks Ashmanskas does not win the Tony Award, there is no God.