Review: Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen, Duncan Sheik’s Dark Swan Song

How many New York theatermakers supplement their income with sex work? I wouldn’t be shocked if it were a substantial percentage considering how little the theater pays, and how impossible it is to live in this town without family money or at very least a six-figure income. So I’ve always been a little mystified by the cartoonish depiction of sex workers onstage, particularly in musical theater—cackling brassy broads looking to hook a big spender.

I was pleasantly surprised, however, by the more nuanced and sophisticated take offered in Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen, the new musical by Lean Nanako Winkler (book) and Duncan Sheik (score) now making its off-Broadway debut at the Culture Club in a sumptuous production from director Rob Ashford.

It’s a show with many flaws unlikely to ever be resolved (Sheik died last month, a week before previews were scheduled to begin), but at least it gives these ladies (and the amorous gentlemen who patronize them) a fair shake—which is, again, somewhat surprising considering the show’s cartoonish origins.

It’s based on Moyoco Anno’s manga (that’s a Japanese graphic novel) about Colette (Sophia Anne Caruso), a young woman of humble origins who moves to Paris around the turn of the 20^th century. She soon finds herself working for Madame (Jenny Powers) at the Night Egg, a boutique brothel catering to clients with niche kinks. One man, Henry (Michael Everett), enjoys putting on a feather costume and pretending he’s a little bird. It’s a pervy kind of therapy.

Colette does this sexualized adult dress-up for money, and that money mostly goes to curly-haired fuckboy Léon (Cory Jeacoma). Madame chides that one should never pay a man for sex, and she’s right, because Léon is sneaking around with Nana (Nkeki Obi-Melekwe), a high-rent courtesan.

Sakae (Marc delaCruz), a Japanese client and aspiring writer, makes a particularly perverse request of Colette. He wants her to record her observations of the Night Egg in a notebook. Naturally, this becomes the frame for Winkler’s book.

It’s a lot of ground to cover in 90 minutes, and not every character or plotline feels fully formed, leaving it up to the actors to fill in the gaps. Elsa Keefe is hilarious as Carmen, a woman who might be losing her mind, and who offers some of this show’s rare comic relief, cheese which she stealthily curdles into horror. Leanne Antonio brings depth and resonance to the role of Ivy, Colette’s no-nonsense lesbian colleague. And Caleb Marshall has an emotionally raw turn as Willy, a John whose fantasy is to be a little lamb who is loved. The despair that washes over his face in his post-nut clarity, as he returns to the reality of a loveless marriage, is devastating.

Caruso, who has been a regular presence on the New York stage since her appearance in The Nether a decade ago, takes her place as one of the theater’s most captivating leading ladies in this rip-your-heart-out performance. Her Colette is a smart and kind woman who finds herself supporting an undeserving man because she doesn’t think she can do any better.

Léon tries to justify his bad behavior by pointing to his crappy childhood, telling her, “Nobody told you that you would be nothing!” And her eyes dissolve into tears as she quietly responds, “Because I was always nothing. Nobody had to tell me.” The moment leads into a torch song that is the most memorable number of the evening. Caruso sounds gorgeous, wailing her pain into the house and even managing to make us overlook the clunky refrain “I am immured.” Her anguished tone tells the whole story, so the words feel superfluous.

Despite his sleazy charm (so much more convincing onstage than on the page) as Léon, Jeacoma is unable to repeat the trick in the following number, which features the head scratching lyric, “I’ve been jumping through hoops / Got ’em dancin’ in troupes / Some of them are blonde and fair / Some look like Betty Boops.” This fin-de-siècle Frenchman obviously has access to a time machine, because Betty Boop first appeared in 1930.

Lyrics are not this musical’s strong suit, but Sheik’s moody music sounds great under Or Matias’s sleekly modern orchestrations, which feature many a sexy guitar interlude. Is it belle epoque Paris? Absolutely not, but it’s très Sheik.

Ashford’s production, which is staged in the round with the audience seated cabaret style, immerses us in a stylized fantasy of Parisian decadence complete with heavy red curtains, foggy mirrors, and a brass-frame bed that rises and falls center stage (lavish set by Scott Pask). The dancers playfully caress and frolic through this bordello playground (the adequate choreography is also by Ashford). Costume designer Catherine Zuber turns the stage into a runway with stylishly striped shirts, pristinely tailored coats, and artfully curved hats. It’s a gorgeous tribute to Moyoco’s original illustrations.

Brian Tovar keeps everything at mood lighting, seamlessly facilitating the script’s many flashbacks and fantasy sequences. And sound designer Cody Spencer offers an ethereal boost to the vocalists while achieving impressive balance in a challenging space, helping us to hear every awful lyric.

Memoirs of Amorous Gentlemen isn’t the next great American musical, but it does at least represent a maturing sensibility around sex workers and the men who hire them. It also boldly places the avant-garde of the erotic imagination on an off-Broadway stage (those patrons inclined to stroll around the block for post-show drinks at the Eagle will surely clock the references to puppy play and clown sex). That makes Memoirs a somewhat bittersweet bookend to Sheik’s musical theater career, which began with the equally adventurous Spring Awakening. Few composers have been better at illuminating the dark corners of desire to create sublime moments of musical melancholy.