Feed me, Seymour. Three little words that will bring a grin to anyone with a soft spot for Roger Corman's cheapie film classic about a nebbishy plant store employee and the behemoth he grows using nourishment of a special type -- specifically, Type O. Even those of us who missed the well-loved off-Broadway run of Alan Menken and Howard Ashman's musicalization of Little Shop of Horrors have felt the work's indelible stamp, thanks mainly to Frank Oz's exceptional 1986 film. And hence lies the problem with the show's 2003 appearance on Broadway. When Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice retooled their cheerily patchwork Dreamcoat into a neon parka for big-theater circuit, they made it loud, vulgar and repetitious, but they sure made it feel like modern Broadway. By contrast, the current Little Shop revival at the thousand-seat Royale Theater still comes off like a petite show struggling to fill the room.
Volume isn't the problem; T. Richard Fitzgerald's sound design, though not painful, is loud and tinny enough to turn harmonies shrill and lyrics unintelligible - just as all new Broadway musicals tend to be. And the Jim Henson Company can justly take bows for its various incarnations of Audrey, a monster-plant that, at its largest, has not only a capacious mouth and lascivious lips but tendrils that would give Captain Nemo's squid an inferiority complex.
It's hard to blame the cast, which features a trio of major talents whose standout performances in previous outings made us eager for their next assignments: Hunter Foster (Urinetown), Kerry Butler (Hairspray and Bat Boy) and Rob Bartlett (Tabletop). While it's never fair to do cast comparisons, the unavoidable impression here is that Foster gets the job done without being particularly ingratiating, lovable or interesting, and that Butler, a cutie who sings gorgeously, nevertheless remains overshadowed by the memory of Greene. Bartlett makes a stronger impression, combining a Nathan Lane-like voice with Jackie Gleasonesque movements. Douglas Sills's sadistic dentist proves amusing and well-sung, but feels like a leading man pressed into doing a comic-character role.
With its cute songs, capable leads and fab flora, Little Shop is certainly no weed on the Broadway landscape, but it never quite blossoms into a garden of hilarity, either. Jobes sticks, anyone?
