Breaking Point

In keeping with the, “Toss it in the script and hope it lands” theory of theater behind [Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown], here are the two ledes I was debating between:

There’s a major problem with any musical in which I ignore a belting Sherie Rene Scott to idly watch the upstage dancers.

When director Bartlett Sher goes to all the trouble of wheeling on a hair salon set for a single joke, but the important-to-the-plot gazpacho thrown in Sherie Rene Scott’s face is both clear and aimed at her skirt, the show has its priorities out of whack.

Either of these would work, but neither truly conveys just how disjointed the entire depressing enterprise is. Depressing because, unlike most mediocre musicals, there’s not much fun to be had here, and the starry cast (Scott, Patti LuPone, Laura Benanti, Brian Stokes Mitchell) should guarantee at least a smidgen of a good time.

The problems come early and fast. The opening number, “Madrid,” sets the frenetic pace, and things never really let up. Sung by a taxi driver (Danny Burstein) downstage while the ensemble frantically rush around behind him as scenery flies past on conveyor belts, Burstein might as well be singing from off-stage. Why isn’t the ensemble singing? At least then we’d have a proper introduction to the leading women.

Actually, maybe it’s better if we’re ever properly introduced. At least we’d be spared the painful sight of Scott’s lightbulb moments that, oh yeah, her character has a Spanish accent (for the first 15 minutes of the show, I thought she’d simply forgone it after the first batch of reviews came out); LuPone relying on outrageous wigs for laughs; and the utterly listless reaction from the audience every time de’Adre Aziza appears as a lawyer.

Only Benanti, as ditzy model Candela, shrugs off the limits of Jeffrey Lane’s book and creates her own private world. As Lane’s adaptation of Pedro Almodóvar’s 1988 film about women struggling with the aftereffects of love lurches from one scene to another, Scott (who stole a garish musical herself a few years ago in Aida) is hampered by the structures of carrying the show, and of trying to sell David Yazbek’s lyrically unmemorable score. LuPone just seems happy to be out of the dark overtones of her last two Broadway outings (Gypsy and Sweeney Todd); Mitchell appears here and there as Scott’s estranged lover, confidently purring mediocre songs that sound a lot better in his velvety baritone. I never thought a big, splashy Broadway musical could be boring; Women on the Verge has proven me wrong.

[Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown]

Through Jan. 23, Belasco Theatre, 111 W. 44th St. (betw. 6th & 7th Aves.), 212-239-6200; $36.50–$126.50.