Set in economically and emotionally depressed 1980s Dublin, Sing Street’s characters seek to alleviate their sorrow through musical means. Derived from the 2016 film, the new tuner employs tropes parallel to the Tony-winning musical Once, which was also based on a movie and began life at New York Theater Workshop. In addition, both shows have the same book writer (Enda Walsh), and John Carney, who wrote the “Sing Street” original screenplay and collaborated on the score with Gary Clark, also wrote and directed the “Once” screen version.
Teenager Conor (simultaneously shy and charismatic Brenock O’Connor) and his friends and family are trapped. His dad Robert cannot find work as an architect, mom Penny seeks comfort in an affair with her boss, older brother Brendan is so down-hearted he can’t even leave the house, and sister Anne buries herself in books as her college education is the only ticket out. As the family budget gets tighter, Conor is forced to attend a public-run, Christian Brothers school, Synge Street, named for the author of Playboy of the Western World, another work center on coping with Gaelic poverty.
To impress the mysterious, aspiring model Raphina (sparkling Zara Devlin), Conor forms a rock band—Sing Street, get it?—but the thrown-together group soon becomes a means of expression and defiance of the tyrannical Brother Baxter (villainous Martin Moran) who rules Conor’s school with an iron fist.
Walsh’s book attempts to cram in too much to be truly effective. Several subplots and characters are briefly introduced—such as the brutal and closeted gay Barry, the nerdish Eamon, backstories for Brendan, Brother Baxter, and Conor’s parents—but never fully developed. There is also confusion between Penny and Eamon’s mother Sandra, a piano teacher who inspires Conor’s band, since the actresses playing them have similar looks and costumes. Also, the storyline is overly familiar—the band gets their big rebellious confrontation, the lead youngsters escape their crushing environment—and the acting is uneven. O’Connor and Devlin are attractive and compelling, and Johnny Newcomb’s Barry sizzles with repressed rage, but Gus Halper’s Brendan plays every line at full volume, and Moran’s nasty authority figure is one-dimensional. But the tunes by Carney and Clark are infectious and reflect the spontaneous joy of the British New Wave pop sound of the era, and Rebecca Taichman’s fluid, flexible staging compensates for any story deficiencies. It’s not an entirely well-maintained Street, but a pleasant enough place to spend some time.
