Peter Pan: El Musical

No question that this is my season with the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up. Last September, I saw a straight play version of James M. Barrie’s Peter Pan in the Berkshires. Earlier this month, I caught the new film based on the play. And now, in Barcelona, I’m about to see a Catalan-language production of Peter Pan: El Musical.

I bought the ticket via a hotel concierge, not at the box-office of the Barcelona Teatre Musical, and I’ve seen no window cards to tell me if I’ll be seeing the 1950 Bernstein, the 1955 Comden-Green-Styne-Charlap-Leigh, or the 2001 London version by Honk! authors George Stiles and Anthony Drews. Or could this be a new version by Spanish authors? Wouldn’t that be exciting?

I saunter inside and find a barn analogous in size and scope to our Theatre at Madison Square Garden. The thousands of seats are less than a fourth-filled, but
what’s interesting is that the patrons in them aren’t just parents with kids but also older empty-nesters and — here’s the surprise — teens who appear to be on dates and don’t seem remotely embarrassed to be at Peter Pan. I take the one-page-folded-over program and see that Luis Ramirez, who’s also directed, has, along with Nacho Artime, adapted Barrie’s play. There’s a 15-song score provided by 10 composers and seven lyricists. I shudder, for that’s never a good sign. But the first song is quite wonderful: “Maria” from West Side Story, played as
background muzak as the recorded announcement is made to turn off cell phones.

This happens a full 25 minutes after the show is supposed to start — and those 25 silent minutes would turn out to be the best of the evening. The deluge of atrocities begins with Mrs. Darling singing a pop rock song, clueing me that the entire score will be in this vein. Listen, I’m not complaining about pop rock per se; many of my favorite musical theater songs belong to this category. But it’s clear from the way the house is decorated and the way everyone is dressed — John is still in his top hat and nightshirt — that we’re still in Victorian England. If you want a pop rock Pan, then set it in “Time: Now.”

My values, I know, strike many musical theater authors of today as finicky purism. I was reminded of what Michael Kunze told me last year just before previews of his show, Dance of the Vampires, began: Today’s audiences like rock music and only rock music, so no matter where or when the show is set, they’ll only be entertained if they hear rock. (Sigh!)

But get this. Because the stage is so large, we don’t just get to see the Darlings — Wendy, Michael, John, and Nana — in their sumptuous home. On each side of the house is a London street scene. At stage left, swells are strolling about in black tie, while at stage right, forlorn Londoners are walking around and clutching their bodies as if they’re freezing. Looks like Ramirez has seen Les Misérables somewhere along the way.

After Nana urinates on Mr. Darling and the kids go to sleep, a turntable does its magic and shows us the exterior of the manse. Wendy goes to the window, looks out, and Eponines her way through a ballad. She’s barely lit, as will so many of the characters be as the show goes on. I don’t know how anyone in the far reaches of the theater can see a thing. Those in Row ZZZZ will, I’m sure, just “z-z-z-z” out.

Then the turntable returns to its original position, Wendy goes to bed, and in walks Peter. That’s right; he opens the window and WALKS in. No techno-magic. The boy (yes, Peter’s a he) walks in — and he’s got a stupid looking, pointy hat on! There is an attempt at realism when Peter gets close to Wendy, speaks to her, and she waves away his bad breath. Yet when he sings this version’s equivalent of “Neverland,” Wendy gets kissing-close and joins him in song. (By the way, when Peter asks Wendy to finish the Cinderella story, Ramirez has two ballet dancers come on and do a brief pas de deux. I don’t imagine that the Disney people will be pleased to hear that the keyboardist plays a measure or two of “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes” at this juncture.)

Peter suddenly speaks English (“One-two-three-four”) and gets Wendy to join him in choreography that — well, let me put it this way: While I can’t speak for God, I have a feeling that if He ever sends a choreographer to hell for incompetence and idiocy, Luka Yexi may well be first at the furnace. All Yexi can think up is herky-jerky, frenetic movements that are not well motivated. Anyway, when the dance mercifully comes to an end, Nana comes in and I relax as Peter, Wendy, John, and Michael go behind their curtains, because that means they’re going to hook up to their wires and fly. And they do, albeit for a much shorter period of time than I’m used to from the Mary Martin, Sandy Duncan, or Cathy Rigby productions.

When we get to Neverland, one Lost Boy — a black girl, actually — sings a blues number with melismas abounding, hitting stratospheric notes just to show us that she can. As this Lead Lost Boy holds one note for an inordinate length of time, another Lost Boy — a white girl, actually — stares at her in astonishment and starts her whole body shaking and tingling to show how impressed she is. Then the Lead Lost Boy jumps up and dances as if she’s Michael Jackson. (Wrong Neverland, honey!)

When the boys kill the Wendy-bird and Peter shows up, Ramirez uses the hoary device of having the boys whistle weakly as if preoccupied in that pseudo-innocent way. Wendy, once recalled to life, sings as the other Lost Boys — all girls, actually — dance in a circle. When each girl reaches center stage, she does a somersault or some such gesture in a desperate attempt to get some attention. But, oh, that Lead Lost Boy is shaking her head and body as if she’s possessed by the music and loves it so, when all she’s really doing is pulling focus.

Time for Captain Hook and his pirates (pirettes? They’re all women!) who Jellicle-Ball their way through another pointless disgrace of a dance by Yexi. Hook sings a melisma that’s even longer than the Lead Lost Boy’s. But you know who’s really good and does a nice, unmannered job? The actor in the crocodile suit. He saunters on stage, does his business (I don’t mean that like it sounds), and saunters off. Too bad the stage lighting goes green then, for I doubt that the pea-green animal can be seen beyond Row P.

Back to Peter and that Lead Lost Boy, who takes off her shoe, causing Peter to hold his nose and wave his hand to indicate how much it smells. But then the Lead Lost Boy takes a whiff and shrugs as if there’s no problem whatsoever — as if her shoe doesn’t stink.

What else? Mermaids roll across the stage on skateboards and then lift their legs to do what I guess is more Yexi choreography, but it comes across as a glorified
exercise class. Hook and Peter have a knife fight, the act comes to a merciful end, and I jump out of my seat. As I rush to the exit, I pass a souvenir booth where there
are mugs, caps, and T-shirts on sale. Just out of curiosity, I stop and ask if there’s an original cast album of the show. “They’re arriving tomorrow,” I’m told. Yes, I’m leaving Barcelona just in time.

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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@aol.com]