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The show has swung between both poles over the course of its existence. When it premiered in 1996, it was larger than life, amplifying the magical elements of its boy-as-man-meets-woman tale with all the artillery a Main Stem show of that age could muster, from a part-bouncy, part-romantic score to sweeping choreography by a red-hot Susan Stroman. (There was even a skateboarding ballet!) But following its short (193 performances), financially disastrous run, librettist Weidman, lyricist Maltby, and composer Shire ripped apart, reconstructed, and (naturally) scaled down the show for the national tour, with the aim of highlighting the intimate emotions that drove the film but could too easily be lost amid the Broadway gloss; this became what theaters could license. There's a lot to like about this "final" version (which has been subtly altered since I saw the tour). The songs remain, per the Maltby-Shire usual, alternately playful and profound, at once light and deep. And the book focuses quite intently on Josh's relationship with his two most important women: his mom and Susan Lawrence, the executive at the toy company Josh wiggles his way into. There's real heft in the way it shows how Susan has had her own issues with growing up, and how she evolves from corporate drone to a vibrant person by embracing the child she long ago abandoned, the takeaway lesson being that you should never lose the foundation and zest for discovery you constructed when you still had your entire life before you. But that also points up one of the main problems: Feelings aside, this is not a microscopic story absent broader impact. We don't see enough of Josh being torn between his forms, with the sparkling excitement of childhood jaggedly juxtaposed against the more complicated and intricate pleasures of adulthood (such as professional success and, of course, sex). Once Josh has aged, the world of the kids all but vanishes (his mom and more tangentially, his best friend, Billy, are all that remains), and the writers appear to argue exclusively on behalf of the grown-ups—not at all the point—to the extent that Josh's final encounter with Susan before he decides what he really wants lacks the heat and poignancy it needs to have to send us out of the theater on the intended high.
Though I do miss Mrs. Baskin's number, "Say Good Morning to Mom," which provided a properly monotonous counterpoint to Josh's transformation (it's been replaced by a Broadway song, "This Isn't Me," which is oddly conversational, even restrained, for that moment), everything else works solidly well under Michael Unger's taut direction, to the point that you don't miss the sets, costumes, or actors being off book you never get at a Mufti. Unger makes full use of the space, and guides the action fluidly from start to finish, keeping the jazzier moments fierce but able to pull back nicely when things go internal. The true revelation of the cast would be Kerry Butler, who plays Susan. Butler's impressive career has been dotted with teenage roles that take advantage of her preternaturally youthful beauty and energy (most notably Penny in Hairspray and Shelly in Bat Boy), so she communicates Susan's being uncomfortable in her own aging skin better than anyone I've seen. Her establishing song, "My Secretary's in Love," is brittle and frantic, but in her reflective first-act showstopper, "Little Susan Lawrence," the girl emerges to correct the wayward woman, and is a powerful unveiling of innocence within someone who lost hers long, long before. No one straddles the generations the way Butler does, and she's rarely been put to better use than she is here. John Tartaglia (Avenue Q) is, on paper, perfect casting as the adult Josh, particularly in the post-coital "Coffee, Black," though too often his Josh seems less like an out-of-sorts child than a really strange adult. Janet Metz touches nicely on the heartbreak inherent in Mrs. Baskin, but her centerpiece solo, "Stop, Time," about missing her son's growing up, is more about hefty belting than breaking our hearts. As the young Josh, Hayden Wall finds an endearing, bewildered sweetness; and Jeremy Shinder gives his all as Billy, but comes across as too earnest to convince as the coarsening influence Josh needs on his fantasy-come-true. Stepping into the role of toy store owner MacMillan (the originally cast Walter Charles departed at the last moment), lyricist Maltby makes a strong impression. If he's not much of a singer (though he's always in tune), he speaks with authority and, more important, he projects an appealing gruffness that melts winningly beneath Josh's light. This is most evident in their duet, "Fun." It's the recreation of the film's signature moment, when Josh charms MacMillan by playing "Heart and Soul" on the toy store's giant floor piano. As the two stamp down, jog on, and leap between the keys, their affection for each other and the simple joys they'd long ago forsaken bubbles to the surface in a most captivatingly theatrical way. It's this scene, done with tricks of K.J. Hardy's lighting rather than sets or props, that demonstrates exactly why the writers believe in the show, and why you should, too—even if, after 18 years, it's still suffering from growing pains.
Big, The Musical
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