In that fruity confection known as Xanadu: The Musical—go ahead, interpret that adjective however you wish—book writer Douglas Carter Beane delights in contorting the 1980 cult film beyond recognition. The result is a witty, wild, relentlessly campy 90-minute show that’s an orgy of metatheatricality (theater that reminds you it’s theater) and a love letter to kitschy musicals—especially those based on cheesy 1970s and ’80s movie musicals that keep popping up on Broadway like Whac-a-Mole on coke.
The story of Xanadu finds nine Ancient Greek muses arriving in our mortal world to inspire Sonny, a daffy California dude played by the whimsically hunky Cheyenne Jackson, to achieve his dream of opening a roller disco. One muse, Clio, played by Kerry Butler in the role originated on screen by Olivia Newton-John, falls for Sonny, and he for her: They’re aided by devilish sister muses Melpomene and Calliope, who are played with such mirthfully wicked abandon by Mary Testa and Jackie Hoffman that they should take their act on the road. Beyond a rendition of “EvilWoman” that should be downloaded onto everyone’s iPod, Testa and Hoffman’s characters have an ulterior motive: a romance with a mortal will prevent Clio, called Kira here on Earth, from reaching the blissful state of Xanadu—whatever that is.
Even Beane doesn’t know what that is, and that’s half the fun. He knows how innocuous the story is, to say nothing of Jeff Lynne and John Farrar’s hoary hit songs, like “I’m Alive,” “Magic,” “Have You Never Been Mellow?” and the title song. Thus, Beane goes for the jocular jugular all the time: The way the songs are tucked into the script is itself a commentary on how bad most jukebox musicals really are.
And as Beane has done previously in his plays, The Little Dog Laughed and As Bees in Honey Drown, and in his screenplay for his own flop film, To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar, he’s all about the take-down, stuffing Xanadu like a Thanksgiving turkey with punchlines skewering everything from Les Misérables to Parker Stevenson. Even throwaway lines—like “Woman, don’t Bogart that joint” and “Bitch, I don’t know your life” (delivered by André Ward’s Terpsicore, a high-kicking dancing queen)—stop a show that intentionally has nowhere to go.
Well, there’s somewhere to go—to a long-closed theater owned by Tony, played by Tony Roberts, in which Sonny and Kira aim to create their roller-disco haven. In the role memorably created by Gene Kelly, Roberts disappoints; his voice is rather noticeably in decline. Fortunately, director Christopher Ashley and choreographer Dan Knechtges know how to mask his shortcomings.
Butler, meanwhile, has transitioned from being a promising talent in shows like Hairspray and Little Shop of Horrors into a first-rate physical- and musical-comedy star. Clad in costumer David Zinn’s cotton-candy-colored leggings and affecting an Australian accent that sounds like a drunk Crocodile Dundee, Butler’s a comic scream from heaven—or Mt. Olympia, where Clio/Kira and Sonny meet their fate. As in many musicals, all collapses into delirium at the finale, including the audience seated on stage dancing with the cast. How lucky for them to find amusing muses of their own.
Open run. Helen Hayes Theatre, 240 W. 44th St. (betw. 7th & 8th Aves.), 212-239-6200; $51.25-$111.25.
