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It's quite telling that this moment—the detonation of the first Atomic bomb in the Trinity test, on July 16, 1945, at 5:29 AM—is not depicted, and for that matter is barely referenced, in the new musical Atomic, which is surely the most stultifying theatrical treatment imaginable of this topic. But Danny Ginges and Gregory Bonsignore (book and lyrics) and Philip Foxman (music and lyrics) are not interested in exploring this catalytic period of our development as a curious and warring species, nor do they much care about pondering new angles to this endlessly controversial chapter in the story of America at its height. Their goals are far more focused than that, and, I assure you, far more boring. The writers avoid as much as is possible the deepest and messiest questions related to the specifics of Trinity by suggesting that the real developments of note occurred before and after, in the laboratories where the ideas were developed and in the military boardrooms where plans to drop two bombs on Japan were laid out. As a result, their main character is the Hungarian Leo Szilard, who conceived the nuclear chain reaction, patented (with Enrico Fermi) the idea of the nuclear reactor, and inspired (by way of his friendship with Albert Einstein) the Manhattan Project itself. Their Leo (played impressively over-the-top by Jeremy Kushnier) is at first gung-ho about the bomb when its target is Germany, then reticent when it's turned toward Japan, and at last quests for repentance by discovering how the potentially devastating effects of radiation could be harnessed for the treatment of cancer. An anti–nuclear bomb message is fine, of course, if that's what the authors believe in, and that's what Atomic ultimately amounts to. But the writers' almost fanatic devotion to Leo, to the expense of all else, all but ensures they're able to wring no drama from his struggles. Part of the reason Szilard is a lesser-known figure is that his general accomplishments (impressive as they were) were more the underpinnings of the theory rather than the application of it—and thus are more influential than fascinating in their own right. So when he's crafted, as here, as a Messianic figure, fighting so nobly against the acidic self-interests of the United States government, it's never entirely clear what exactly he's fighting for. Worse is that by promoting him to the central figure of the saga, the writers have to downplay others to build him up. Fermi, a brilliant, Nobel Prize–winning physicist, is rendered as a buffoon who cares only about cheating on his wife with American women. (Jonathan Hammond plays him to the best of his ability, but is fighting a hopeless cause.) J. Robert Oppenheimer, who performed critical late-stage research and oversaw Trinity, is essentially the musical's bad guy, a role that Euan Morton fulfills with a perpetual scowl and a screaming voice on the rare occasions he's allowed to get a word in. General Leslie Groves, the distinguished Army man who directed the Manhattan Project, is referred to as a "simpleton" and does not even appear onstage. Historically dubious as all this, it could perhaps be forgiven were it decent entertainment. Alas, Atomic is not even that. Laid out with a generic rock score that forces the performers (especially the men) into the highest ends of their registers, apparently only to impart an intensity the book and lyrics do not, it's dry and listless to watch, despite director Damien Gray's forceful staging on a compartmentalized framework set by Neil Patel that underscores the mathematical efficiency that brutally guides these people's lives. But when Hiroshima is hit and Kushnier parades about a stage (flooded with smoke and lighting designer David Finn's endless strobe effects) silently karate-chopping a young Japanese couple having tea, not much can save the evening. Kushnier does come close, through sheer force of will and steel-plated vocal cords, as do Sara Gettelfinger, who makes the most of her role (the only sympathetic one) of Leo's wife, and David Abeles and Randy Harrison as respectively the tortured Arthur Compton (who promoted the attacks on Japan) and Paul Tibbets (pilot of the Enola Gay). And a pointless second-act number titled "The Holes in the Donuts," in which a trio of Rosie the Riveter impersonators talk around the work they can't talk about, is catchy and tuneful. But when there's no greater takeaway from a show about the atomic bomb, such diversions come across as more grating than praiseworthy. It forces you to wonder why, with all the vast, fiery possibilities at their disposal, Ginges, Bonsignore, and Foxman seem to go out of their way to avoid being explosive.
Atomic
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