The Broadway Theatre Review: Broadway’s Cabaret

By Ross

“Welcome to Berlin,” we are told, and quite accurately in this deliciously baked wedding cake revival of this iconic musical. Expertly with invention, director Rebecca Frecknall (NYTW’s Sanctuary City) has crafted something completely compelling and distinct. The overall icing effect of the new staging of Cabaret at the Kit Kat Club is brave and utterly magnificent, coming to life in a marionette world of vast creation. I must admit this is not my first time at this delicious rodeo, but my second time viewing this masterful revival, after being fortunate enough to see it in London’s West End when it first opened with Eddie Redmayne as Emcee and Jessie Buckley as Sally Bowles. So it wasn’t as much of a shock or surprise as it seems to have been for many others here in NYC who quite possibly were expecting something different or something physically darker. But that was not my experience of my return to the Kit Kat Club in NYC. Quite the opposite.

I will admit that sometimes, in this current Broadway revival, the performances have a quality that is a bit overly twitchy and extreme in their granulations emphasizing their other-worldliness over human authenticity, but these symbolic representations never fail to pull us in completely to the idealistic framework of that cultural and historical complication. They are puppets pulled by historic strings, seething in an energy that is sublime and persuasive. Divine decadence, one might say, with its creative eye held wide open in darkly symbolic amazement. With a sneaky intelligence, it slinks in and gifts us with a production that easily soars into the Broadway atmosphere with a stunning force.

As I entered into the theatre through the alleyway for a revival of one of my all-time favorites, we were told quite insistently, that what happens inside the Kit Kat Club, aka the completely redesigned and difficult-to-place August Wilson Theatre right there in the heart of Times Square, needs to be only seen and not shared through social media. No pictures, please. And no videos are allowed. So after stickers are placed on our phone’s camera lens, we are all asked to keep the secret safe for the sake of those who would be coming soon after. The curiosity created is infectious, I must say. Creating a sense of wonder and excitement about what is inside those doors, and what exactly do they have in store for us?

Inside that red-lit environment, oozing with sexual adventurism and voyeurism, the pre-show gesticulations began from the moment you drink down your shot (not the tastiest of shots, I might add). The whole space has been reconfigured, and as we enter, wandering up, down, and around into rooms, I couldn’t place myself in the theatre, even though I’d been in that theatre a thousand times before. I felt a tad lost, which I’m guessing is the point. Carousing around the carefully crafted space on our way to the carefully designed tables and chairs, the preshow begins in earnest, attempting to energize the space as the clock ticks toward the show’s beginning. It feels like they want to shock us; titillate us; excite us, but I must admit the sensual festivities pale somewhat to the more dynamic preshow delivered forth by that other Broadway show, Moulin Rouge! The Musical. Over there, the energy feels dangerous and far more seductive.

Over here, at the Kit Kat Club, the white-coated energy feels a bit forced and somewhat bland visually. Back in the West End, the framing caused a fairly strong insecurity to rise up within, making me wonder if this was a signal of what was to come. But I could not have been more mistaken. Maybe, I thought, after seeing the show, this monotone creation was a trick, to lull us into complacency. Because, without a doubt, the beginning, and really, the whole show, both in London and now on Broadway, is the furthest thing you can imagine from bland. It’s epic, symbolic, and fantastically dynamic, stirring up the discomfort and edginess of that particular time and place in history with a drizzling of an intelligence that is divinely decadent and captivating.

Revolving upwards from down below like an ornament on a multi-tiered birthday cake, Eddie Redmayne (“The Danish Girl“; Broadway/Donmar’s Red), the star attraction, conducts his entrance most expertly. It’s a spectacular creation, that culminates with the dramatic reveal of the shrouded ladies that makes any hesitation that we might have vanish in an instant. This magnificently crafted re-conceived confection, with both set and costuming by the uber-talented Tom Scutt (Broadway’s King Charles III), is everything one could hope for, but few could imagine. With the audience wrapped precisely and intimately around its small bare circular stage finger, Redmayne, as the ever-elusive and elastic Emcee, overblown and disproportionate, drives forth a dichotomy that unearths an electric appeal under his wide secretive grin and his pointed birthday hat. His performance hits strong and hard, unpacking symbolic layers upon layers of devilish glee at every turn of the androgynous screw. The tense engagement is complex and enticing, twitchy and overwhelmingly abstract, and with athletic force, this puppet creature rotates out a crew of magnificently clad gender-non-specific dancers, knowing with all confidence that we are roped and tied in completely.

Waving to us from up above, and not giving one inch over to Liza Minnelli’s iconic portrayal in Bob Fosse’s masterpiece film version, the astonishing Gayle Rankin (Public’s Hamlet) dives into the mix, rivaling all as the damaged and desperate Sally. Digging in deep, she never lets the tension of the moment flag. It’s an edgy portrayal, void of any sentimental connection to the film’s predecessor, yet brimming with a raw and almost volatile concoction. Pushed to the forefront by musical director Jennifer Whyte (UK’s Follies) and her tight use of her seven-piece band, Rankin’s “Maybe This Time” dynamically gives us a much-needed glimpse inside the impatient Sally, which only makes her ferocious “Cabaret” more devastating and harrowing. Balancing the ideas of a well-sung Liza with the rough-around-the-edges immaturity of this Sally, her portrayal is insightful to the pain and disengagement she feels towards Clifford, bringing force into her desperation against all odds.

It’s ruthless, in a way, this rendition and performance of hers, and it is only enhanced by the Emcee’s physical and emotional response. Her combative energy shines bright like a shattered broken star, filled with anger, pain, and an aspect of deep dark sadness. It is as unique and electric as Redmayne’s highly stylized Emcee who is delivering something equally enticing and dangerous. The two, along with the rest of the solidly connected cast, frolick around the space representing this hypnotic and complex treat with an expertise bordering on tawdry deliciousness (something I thought the pre-show was completely lacking).

Frecknall’s direction is to captivate and deliver symbolic chaotic energy, sliced deep into the multi-layered cake of a crumbling German society. Much like our own, in a way, in order to serve us up each and every delicious bite of Joe Masteroff’s devious book and John Kander and Fred Ebb’s magnificent score. Using the wide-eyed foil of the well-formed Ato Blankson-Wood (Audible’s Long Day’s Journey…) as the Christopher Isherwood stand-in, Clifford, the cascade of decadence finds the right phone to ring. I must admit, that standing next to Rankin who is giving us one of the most ferociously complicated Sally, his straight man/gay man appeal isn’t as interesting or as compelling. But it is required for us to find our foothold in the ever-revolving landscape.

The final product delivers with an inventiveness that is both curious and demanding all at the same time. The circular energy insinuates itself within, much like that charming smuggler, Ernst, perfectly portrayed by Henry Gottfried (Broadway’s Waitress), bringing in illegal Paris treats and possible propaganda for his Berlin customers. We recognize the danger but are too smitten to withdraw, until that one devastating reveal. The inspiration behind every simple structure, including all the ingenious props laid out before us, vibrates the show forward with a devastatingly historic energy. It hits hard, particularly when Germany’s history stomps its way into the circle. I don’t recall ever being so moved by any other staged rendition of Cabaret, – well, maybe the first time I watched the film on my mother’s bedroom television late one night when I didn’t feel well – but when the darkness of society is uncoated for us all to see and understand, I could feel that tense lump suddenly appear in my throat. The historical layer crashes into us with an emotional force to be reconned with, particularly when it becomes clear that “Tomorrow Belongs to..” them, and not to the glorious Fräulein Schneider, gorgeously portrayed by the phenomenal Bebe Neuwirth (ATC’s The Bedwetter) and her loving grocer, Herr Schultz, touchingly played by the wonderful Steven Skybell (NYTF’s Fiddler on the Roof). Their engagement literally “Couldn’t Please Me More.”

The devilishly good choreography, courtesy of Julia Cheng (RSC’s Macbeth) finds all the aspects of that Berlin iconography and tightens it in and around that small exquisite stage. It’s an impressive adventure in the way it shines with a seedy lavishness, heightened by the seductive turntable lighting of Isabella Byrd (NYTW’s Sanctuary City) and the solid sound design of Nick Lidster (Garrick’s City of Angels). It cleverly unveils the brown-jacketed, poverty-stricken Weimar Republic world, where a musical can be both wildly entertaining, and historically and emotionally devastating. 

That “Goodbye to Berlin” story by Isherwood that inspired John Van Druten’s 1951 play “I Am a Camera“, which is the seed that brought forth this brilliant famed musical revival, plays out the historic details exquisitely. It rises to the occasion at every moment given, particularly when Neuwirth destroys all with her simple and shockingly emotional “What Would You Do.” It feels like she was born for this moment, demanding acknowledgment and understanding, while making us sit back in our seats as the sting and the sadness rip through our collective hearts.

So ignore those who are trying to stuff it all down into shoebox categories with unneeded labels and neatly defined identity politics. There is no need. These characters should be allowed to be as symbolically obscure and esoteric as they so desire. “Life is a Cabaret, old chum.” So please, “Come to the Cabaret.” It will be a night you won’t forget.