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Conceiver-director Lear deBessonet and writer Todd Almond have collaborated on this spectacle for the Public Works program, which seeks to unite the performing community with the New York community, much as they did the previous two years with their similar versions of The Tempest and The Winter's Tale. Their goal is less to concoct a traditional, or for that matter even viable, musical than to kindle the involvement of city groups that will make the evening a celebration of New York arts in all its infinitely varied forms, and capture something more than a straightforward theatricalization of Homer's epic, which follows King Odysseus's sweeping journey back to his wife Penelope and son Telemachus in Ithaca after the completion of the Trojan War, ever could alone. So the goddess Athena is represented by gospel singers, The Bobby Lewis Ensemble. The Phaecians are embodied by joint-achingly nimble young men's dance troupe called The D.R.E.A.M. Ring, for whom traditional physiological notions of limb movement simply do not apply. Circe's alluring but vicious coterie is a sextet of steamy dancers from Flamenco Vivo Carlota Santana II. The spirits of the underworld are a gaggle of children from TADA! Youth Theater, and the New York Youth Symphony materializes to set the home stretch of Odysseus's trek to haunting, vocal-free music. The palace guard that signifies a last-minute obstacle for Odysseus to overcome is a wry and agile collection of musicians called The Marching Cobras. Perhaps most bizarrely, Queen Penelope's suitors are The Old Bones Motorcycle Club, specifically the N.Y.C. Fire Riders and the M.L.C. Crew. And did I mention the 90-strong "community ensemble" to round out the crowd? There's an undeniable magic in seeing the Delacorte filled to bursting with these performers, especially in such a high level of production, complete with a swirling dreamscape of set and lights by Justin Townsend; gloriously colorful and characterful costumes by Paul Carey; spirited, we're-all-in-this-together choreography by Lorin Latarro-Kopell; and Almond's lively musical direction, his five-borough cornucopia score receives the properly ebullient rendering from the four-piece band. The joy of it all is so inescapable that the drama itself, as communicated through the writing and non-pageant direction, is of little significance.
The biggest casualty is scope: With the exception of the finale, when all 200 singers, dancers, and actors cram themselves onto the stage (and overflow into the aisles) at the same time, the action feels microscopic. Though the leads, particularly Brandon Victor Dixon as Odysseus and Karen Olivo as Penelope and Circe, bring some welcome Broadway size to the proceedings, they're building it from the ground up, which pays limited dividends with a score that has few brassy showstoppers and leans more toward contemplative and occasionally plodding strains in tune with the put-upon hero's eternal struggling. What's missing, and what suffuses Homer's original poem, is the influence of the gods, the notion that they are in control and the humans are but playthings in a much broader and grander struggle. Almond has done away with nearly all the Olympian internecine conflict involving the likes of Zeus and Poseidon, transforming Odysseus's travails into a endless string of bad luck that's utterly absent narrative urgency. It also renders most of the otherwise cleverly rendered final scene nonsensical, the confused, confusing whim of a heartbroken Penelope and not a form of necessary divine revelation to give celestial healing to a mortal society still healing its deity-inflicted wounds. Aside from that, to fit everything into 100 minutes, Almond has compressed most of The Odyssey's events, deleted a number of them entirely, and downplayed others that could be considered vital. Telemachus gets a scene (and song) of his own and a reunion with dad, but is largely a throwaway character, which does cause some problems when Odysseus is trying to set things right at the end. And making Odysseus an almost thoroughly one-dimensional good guy, rather than a tortured, complex figure in his own right, robs the work of its texture and the denouement of its unsettling impact. But: So what? You're not here to bask in the story. You're here to thrill to how Odysseus evades the sirens (street singers in green shock wigs). You're here to revel in the elaborate shadow-puppet pantomime of Odysseus' men dying from attacks by Scylla and Charybdis, as Almond croons a seriocomic lyric about it. You're here to root against the towering Cyclops with an inflated-balloon eye. You're here to delight in Olivo's smoky despondency as Penelope and her spicy vamping as Circe. You're here to stop the show with applause after Dixon delivers his full-throated 11-o'clock number, even if it's emotionally simplistic and musically uninteresting. This is an Event, and you don't question an Event. In fact, you can't—DeBessonet and Almond have made sure of that, even if their show would not fly under less monumental circumstances. But even if there's plenty to quibble with, who cares? With these people, in Central Park, in September of 2015, and absent any other expectations, The Odyssey is a trip well worth taking.
The Odyssey
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