Rob McClure gives such a spectacular performance, he, alone, makes the Broadway Honeymoon in Vegas worth seeing. Aside from his endearing portrayal of a sad-sack Brooklyn schnook who’s about to get married, the show proves a clumsy and tasteless mediocrity.
Audiences have apparently agreed with me because the production is closing after a short run. This despite Ben Brantley’s rave review in the New York Times that said, “Wake up and smell the mai tais...you’d be a churl not to embrace this...deeply satisfying Broadway musical in a way few new shows are anymore.” It’s heartwarming to learn that the opinion of the Times’s critic is no longer a guarantee of whether a play will succeed or fail.
Jack (McClure) is a nebbish who finally gets enough backbone to ignore the wishes of his bossy mother (the hilarious Nancy Opel) and propose to his girlfriend Betsy (the pleasant Brynn O’Malley). He takes her to Las Vegas where a wise-guy gambler (a slick Tony Danza) falls for Betsy and arranges for Jack to lose big in a poker game so he can claim the bride-to-be for himself.
McClure is downstage in virtually every scene and is touching and funny. The effervescent actor has played Mozart in Amadeus regionally and the title roles in Where’s Charley for Encores in Manhattan and Chaplin on Broadway.
Danza’s name appears above the play’s title but he really is the supporting actor while McClure is the star. Danza does a nice job of tap-dancing as he goes through the paces of his shallow role.
This show was adapted from a 1992 movie with James Caan and Nicolas Cage that’s remembered not for its story but for the aerial photography of a plane-load of Elvis impersonators parachuting to the Las Vegas strip. The stage version features intentionally cheesy nightclub entertainment and a bunch of unappealing Vegas stereotypes. For no logical reason, the plot detours to Hawaii where it inflicts a repulsively formulaic Hawaiian girl upon us. Because the movie is known for its Elvis scene, the show recreates it, but clumsily.
The time-frame is supposed to be the 1960s when Sinatra and his Rat Pack ruled, but this production is much coarser than what I saw in Vegas then; it does not work as a tribute, nor does it attempt to treat the era satirically. A big on-stage band is pleasant to hear but does not accurately capture the flavor of those days.
The score by Jason Robert Brown is below his normal standard. It turns out to be the fourth successive flop for the gifted songwriter. Seems like he’s the Nicholas Cage of Broadway composers.
