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Despite its obvious virtues, many of which are related to Kander's still-strong way with melodies and vamps, this ranks as among the very bleakest musicals I've ever seen. Sondheim, LaChiusa, and other writers who "came of age" in the era of post–Golden Age Broadway have embraced more serious, even tragic, topics that would have been all but unthinkable in, say, the 1940s or 1950s. But most of them have offered some items of redemptive value that, at least for the viewer, made the pain worthwhile. Such is not the case here. Over 95 intermissionless minutes, Kander and librettist-lyricist Greg Pierce (with whom Kander crafted the narrative) spin a trio of tales of ultimately unrelenting woe that do not paint life on Earth in a flattering light. The theme linking the playlets is, broadly, death, but more specifically the disintegration of the illusions on which so many of us build life. True, this is not new territory for Kander—at least Cabaret, Chicago, Kiss of the Spider Woman, and Steel Pier all broach it as well—but the angle of attack is fresh, and far from inspiring. Take the opener, "Andra." What appears at first to be a simple, lovely tale of a young boy named Noah who finds a spiritual and celestial mentor in the handyman, Ben, who's rebuilding his parents' kitchen eventually morphs into a cruel, modern parable about how you can't trust anyone and have to forever endure those who betray you most.
Though the follow-up, "The Brick," is not more dispiriting, it possesses less point. Now another boy, Darius, is staying with his Aunt Charl for the summer, and discovers that she adores the old gangster movies that play on late-night TV. While watching one they encounter a commercial for an actual brick from the wall against which 1929 St. Valentine's Day Massacre occurred, and order it. When it arrives, looking to us a suavely dressed mafioso, its mere presence drives the aunt literally insane. Whether the brick is cursed, as the boy's Internet search suggests, and thus the tale is intended as a lark, or if the whole thing is a sly warning against unchecked obsession with entertainment are largely irrelevant. What's not is that this longest scenario—nearly 40 minutes—contains the lowest amount of action and the least character detail, which makes it a slog in any event, even before the brutal and uncomfortable ending. The title piece is better because of its brevity and its simplicity, but it's perhaps the most depressing of the three. After a long struggle, a married gay couple, Denny and Jake, finally succeeds in adopting a child named Colin—and the boy in turn permanently severs the bond between the two dads. (That's not quite as much of a spoiler as it sounds like, by the way.)
Though it's unlikely any director could shape a satisfying evening from these components, Walter Bobbie (who also directed the current long-running revival of Chicago), seems especially at sea. He has trouble establishing and maintaining a consistent tone, and much of his staging is arid and uncertain, as though he expects to tap into natural chemistry that never materializes. John Lee Beatty's set looks empty and (unusual for him) cheap, a too-blank canvas on which the inflated morbidity of the proceedings are projected. Ken Billington's lights and the four-member band (led by Paul Masse with musical direction by David Loud and orchestrations by Larry Hochman) feel similarly lifeless. Only Josh Rhodes's choreography, which is showcased only in speakeasy-framed style in "The Brick," hints at the possibility that entertainment energy could enliven things. David Hyde Pierce, Paul Anthony Stewart, and Julia Murney excel in their roles; Pierce is particularly touching as the left-behind dad and as funny as anyone could be as the brick, but they all have moments when they break through the murk to reveal intriguing, worthwhile people beneath. More hobbled is Frankie Seratch: As the boy in all three stories, he has the most varied, expansive, and intense duties, and is not quite up to the challenge of conveying the myriad hues of desperation, loss, and duty required of him. There's no question, however, that Kander still retains many of his gifts. Though it's hard to see how his compositions here could rank among his finest, there's at least one delectable one in each act (Noah and Ben's "getting to know you" number in "Andra," followed by "White Water" in "The Brick" and finally a spirited quodlibet for the boy and his dads) that you wish were allowed to blossom and develop more fully. Pierce (who wrote last year's LCT3 play Slowgirl) turns out some fat-lined book scenes that don't always need music to feel complete, but he's nonetheless a careful and conscientious lyricist who lacks only the cleverness and agility of Ebb that brought out so much of Kander's most memorable liveliness. More of that kind of bounce could only help this show, which, as constructed, cannot escape the mire of its own hopelessness. I have no doubt that Kander thinks as deeply about living, dying, and eternity as his earliest successes indicate he did about the fragile, even parasitic, relationship between show business and the so-called "real world." But those shows made bitter truths palatable by wrapping them in sugary glitter that went down easy. The message of The Landing is that death is out there, so you might as well accept it and even invite him over to dinner. That's no doubt true, but who wants to see that and nothing else as the subject of one dreary musical—let alone three?
The Landing
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