The Lion King is a mega-hit in L.A. and elsewhere, a show that attracts audiences of all ages and types, so criticizing it is like a lesson in frustration and irrelevance. But criticize it I must. Not that I find it all bad; on the contrary, it has miraculous things, such as Taymor's staging, costumes and puppetry. I also find much of the music (and arrangements) stirring, and there are first-rate performances galore, notably Danny Rutigliano's antic Timon, John Vickery's villainous Scar and Bob Bouchard's flatulent Pumbaa. Others in the cast give their all but cannot be understood well, perhaps because their elaborate masks and costumes interfere with amplification.
Most disappointing, though, is the utterly banal story, insipid lyrics (especially in the big moments) and largely forgettable dancing. The mish-mosh of theatrical elements, ranging from African folk songs to anachronistic jokes ("I'll toss you in the shallow end of the gene pool") to Shakespearean coming-of-age formula (young prince returns to the kingdom battle the baddie and reclaim his throne) leaves us uplifted one moment, appalled the next.
Like most Disney product, the show appeals to the lowest common denominator but tries to hide the fact with razzle-dazzle spectacle and color. The formula works for most people, but not this particular reviewer.
