A Ruthless, Sensational SMASH — Review

That it subtitles itself “A Comedy About a Musical” is one of the few kindnesses imparted by Smash, the stage adaptation of the messy but memorable 2012 television series about the troubles of putting a show on Broadway. I mean that as a high compliment, because this show provides a delectably nasty view of show business to rival that of Bob Fosse. Energetically cynical and committed to upending easy audience comforts, it’s best viewed as a play tracing the creative process with high-octane choreography, vocals, and just enough earnestness to save it from choking on itself. It likely won’t be for everyone, but it’s vicious fun for those along for the ride.

What tanked the original two-season series was a saccharine too-muchness: too many characters with too many subplots we’re expected to juggle caring about. What cemented its uneasy status as musical theater canon were its instant hits, by Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman, the impossibly kinetic dances by Joshua Bergasse, and an unbelievable lead performance from Megan Hilty.

Hilty’s up the street in another show, slaying as she does, but Smash’s score and choreography have been, somewhat miraculously, translated intact. They’ve landed mainly on the herculean shoulders of Robyn Hurder, who inherits a modified version of Hilty’s character, the blonde bombshell Ivy Lynn, here an established star rather than an ensemble member waiting for her break. All of the superhuman acts Ivy was made to perform (getting tossed around the stage, crawling on all fours, belting through high-kicks – and that’s just “Let’s Be Bad”), Hurder pulls off beautifully, and with a tighter arc.

The question of whether Ivy will star in Bombshell, the Marilyn Monroe biomusical at the center of the story, remains, but gone are the random romances and episodic woes of the series. There are still a generous heap of characters in Rick Elice and Bob Martin’s focused book, but each is picked up and dropped off on an Altmanesque, as-needed basis. The production, directed by Susan Stroman, resists attachment and surface enjoyment. If the opening version of the score’s best-known song, “Let Me Be Your Star,” is heinously re-orchestrated and exhaustingly staged, it’s soon to be called out and redone later on. If anyone lovable seems on the cusp of a breakthrough, it’s best not to get too attached.

It’s a risky gambit, typically indicative of a creative laziness that seeks to wink its way out of presenting bad material. But the sharpness of the production’s cynicism shines through, assisted by the strength of the musical numbers and the all-around stellar performances, which imbue a palpable love of the form with an even stronger frustration with its mechanics.

Ivy begins as a down-to-earth powerhouse, as attested by Karen (Caroline Bowman), her longtime understudy. But when she’s handed a book on method acting by Bombshell’s writer, Tracy (Krysta Rodriguez), she slips down a diva drain with the help of an acting coach (Kristine Nielsen) who sets her on a destructively parallel path to Monroe’s. Soon she’s putting the moves on Karen’s co-star husband (Casey Garvin) and lashing out at Tracy’s, the composer Jerry (John Behlmann).

This sets off a chain reaction of mental anguish from the show’s director, Nigel (Brooks Ashmanskas), to his associate (Bella Coppola) and stage manager (Megan Kane), all the way up to the producer (Jacqueline B. Arnold) and her assistant (Nicholas Matos), who only got the job when his dad pledged to invest a million.

Who gets to sing which of the TV series’ best songs mirrors Bombshell’s bumpy path to opening night, placing Smash’s women on a seesaw that doubles as a catapult. The plot’s development is genuinely surprising and thrilling in its boldness, best encapsulated in Ashmanskas’ leaning all the way into the spitefulness that’s always lurked behind his comedy. His predatory director calls the audience “entitled little shits,” jabs at how Sutton Foster broke out of the chorus and, at one point, steps on an employee’s hand only to punish him for squirming.

Smash has a ruthlessness that’s hard to believe exists in the PR’d universe of modern theater, and it does sometimes curdle. There’s an ickiness to Ivy’s story, where a woman attempting to self-actualize and improve herself is treated as an impediment. But Hurder finds humanity in her worst behavior, and gets to stalk deliciously around the stage in a fur coat and shades (Alejo Vietti did the spot-on costumes).

The cast comprising all Broadway veterans, they bring a lifetime of knowledge to the production. When Bowman delivers a vitriolic take on “They Just Keep Moving the Line” with an understudy’s full grievance, we think of how her fans flocked to her single performance in Sunset Blvd. And when Coppola’s character is given the opportunity, she believably grows into her power. The uphill battle Arnold’s character faced for a seat at the table registers as true, and Rodriguez and Behlmann locate the nuanced difference between exasperated (her) and beleaguered (him).

To see them each work their best on Beowulf Boritt’s multiple realistic sets, easy on projections – a contemporary miracle, though those present, by S Katy Tucker, are nicely rendered – is a treat. This score and choreography are no joke, despite how cosmically absurd its performers’ profession can sometimes be. But Smash ends on a note of which Fosse would approve, of the brief glory achieved through all that hoofing. If it’s also mean as hell, that’s showbiz.

Smash is in performance at the Imperial Theatre on West 45th Street in New York City. For tickets and more information, visit here.