This biography of a performer still beloved by those of a certain age was, inexplicably, a winner of London's Olivier Award as best musical. It must have been a really poor season for musicals, because Jolson is a shallow, grating formula show. It asks audiences to believe in a performer's greatness without providing evidence to back up its claims, and then tries to convince us that a character who has demonstrated nothing but bullying and manipulation all evening long is actually a benevolent softy underneath the tough exterior. Al Jolson was a mighty star in the 1920s and 1930s, and according to all reports, his onstage charm was more than balanced by his offstage ego.
If the authors of Jolson wanted their central figure to be sympathetic, it was perhaps not the wisest decision to open with a scene in which he barges late into a rehearsal and then appropriates for himself a song that a struggling sister act has commissioned for their own use. (Of course, these fictional Rooney Sisters remain devoted to him for the rest of their lives.)
And the authors are more than willing to distort history. Jolson's divorce from Ruby Keeler was legendary in its bitterness, but the show has her remaining a supportive friend even after Jolson's embarrassment at merely dubbing his own voice to Larry Parks' performance in "The Jolson Story" (which, of course, offered its own distorted version of history). It might have helped if Mike Burstyn's performance in the title role helped us understand Jolson's enormous appeal.
But Burstyn is tough, slick, and charmless, and doesn't even sound very much like his model. Under Bill Castellino's direction, the whole performance is very broad and generic; an exception is Harry A. Winter, who has some touching moments as Jolson's longtime agent. Heather Mazur sings and dances (Busby Berkeley forgive me!) better than the real Ruby Keeler ever managed, but her acting choices become increasingly affected until you wish she would just get the line out without all the pauses and sighs and extraneous gestures.
The sets and costumes are okay, but hardly live up to the show's presumptuous subtitle. The familiar songs (the score consists basically of Jolson favorites; there are no original musical numbers) are performed competently, aided by some inventive staging by Joey McKneely. The most effective scene in the show is the final concert sequence, which at least offers a succession of bright musical numbers, uninterrupted by the book, that rouse the audience. But it is too late to save a floundering show that fails to bring its leading character, not to mention the era he illuminated, to convincing life.
