| Subject: Bombay Bomb! |
Author:
Dee
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Date Posted: Monday, May 03, 4:36:18
In reply to:
Anjoom
's message, "Bombay Flop..." on Sunday, May 02, 14:10:29
Toronto Star
Apr. 30, 2004. 01:00 AM
Putting the bomb in Bombay
RICHARD OUZOUNIAN
Bombay Dreams is a Broadway nightmare.
There's no other way to describe the misbegotten monstrosity, which opened in New York last night.
Initially, it must have seemed like a good idea to creator and original producer Andrew Lloyd Webber to bring the colourful excesses of India's Bollywood film musicals to the stage. But between that moment of conception, the original London production and the new "improved" version refashioned for American audience, something vital has been lost.
And that is innocence.
There is something almost childlike about the Bollywood genre at its best. The garish style of the MGM movie musical goes through a shotgun wedding with the serene culture of South Asia. The resulting offspring is a sort of gawky young woman wearing her mother's ball gown, who manages to pull the whole thing off thanks to an engaging smile.
But once you put this already artificial format through the synthetic conventions of musical comedy, you're practically guaranteeing that the taste of Western aspartame will overwhelm the natural sweetness of Eastern honey.
And that is what has happened on the Broadway Theatre stage.
We're presented with the story of eager young slum kid Akaash, who lives in present-day Bombay and wants to be a Bollywood star. He has a saintly granny, a devoted street urchin and an even more devoted eunuch named Sweetie, who used to be his best friend back in the days when they both were boys. (Have I lost you yet?)
There's a melodramatic plot about slum landlords and urban corruption, as well as the usual struggle between sacred and profane love. Nubile, young female director or sleazy aging movie goddess — who's a boy to choose?
It's all treated as one big cartoon by director Steven Pimlott, who gave the same treatment — come to think of it — to Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
Only the venerable Madhur Jaffrey as the aged Shanti is allowed to play for reality.
A R Rahman is one of the most popular composers in India, but his work here all sounds vaguely generic. It's as though someone sprinkled garam masala over the score for Aspects Of Love and called it a day.
Don Black, one of Lloyd Webber's frequent lyricists, contributes his usual greeting card sentiments, suitable for any soppy occasion. With titles like "Love's Never Easy" and "How Many Stars?" you don't even have to hear the songs to know what they're like.
The book for the show was first written by Meera Syal, but the Broadway version has been restructured by Thomas Meehan. He has explained everything about Bollywood, Bombay and India that benighted American theatre-goers might not understand in the most flatfooted of fashions and then proceeds to join Pimlott in the cartooning of everyone on stage.
The choreography of Anthony Van Laast and Farah Khan also has a lot to answer for, spraying Eau De Vegas over everything until the rancid scent of empty artifice wafts out over the audience.
Their dance steps either consist of sari-clad aerobics, or numbers where the women all seem to be performing natural childbirth exercises and the men are demonstrating why they couldn't possibly be the fathers.
One has to concede that the scenery and costumes of Mark Thompson have a certain flamboyant use of colour that is true Bollywood. But, apart from an excessive use of fountains, there is nothing of real wit or imagination to delight us — just yards and yards of brightly coloured silk. That must have been where the show's reported $15 million (U.S.) budget went.
When it comes to talent, the cast (including our 11 Canadians) all try hard and are almost pathetically eager to please, but the show fights them every step of the way.
As Akaash, Manu Narayan sings with moderate skill, but can't act or dance. And when he tries to be comedic, he appears to channel Marty Feldman — all bug-eyed intensity.
Anisha Nagarajan is actually very sweet as the heroine, Priya, with a winning smile and a nice way with a song. But once again, the dialogue she's forced to deliver is pure cardboard.
Toronto's own Marvin L. Ishmael has a certain panache as a fading film mogul and Deep Katdare makes an okay villain until his final scenes, when you think he's going to wrap the scenery in a papadum and gobble it down.
But the rest are all way too much, with Spiram Ganesan's annoying eunuch Sweetie proving the hardest to take.
In the show's opening sequence, Narayan describes Bombay as a place where "the beautiful and the beastly live side by side."
But in Bombay Dreams, I'm afraid, it's beastly all the time.
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