Horrifying, monstrous, and grotesque were words I used at the time to describe Sunset Boulevard, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s 1994 musical version of Billy Wilder’s brilliantly sardonic 1950 film about Joe Gillis, a young struggling Hollywood screenwriter who becomes the gigolo of an older retired silent screen star. Although it starred Glenn Close as the delusional Norma Desmond (she would win the Tony Award for her stunning performance), the real star of the show was the mammoth setting by John Napier that rose on a hydraulic lift from the depths of the Minskoff Theater to depict the awesome castle-like mansion wherein much of the action would take place. That setting is no longer back to awe us in the comparatively scaled-down and newly envisioned production designed by James Noone and directed by Lonny Price at the Palace Theater. We are being treated to a forty-piece orchestra that is perched prominently on the stage where only a few set pieces and lots of flashy projections create the illusions needed to reaffirm that it is Close’s mesmerizing performance and Webber’s grandiose, if a bit soggy, score that makes the show even modestly worthwhile. Although patently lifted from the pungent and witty original screenplay, the familiar book (and new lyrics) by Don Black and Christopher Hampton simply refuses to resonate responsibly within what was and still is a phony and facetious frame. As was the case with the original production, such equally important settings for Schwab’s drugstore and the lot at Paramount Studios are even more relegated to insignificance. This is, for all the instrumental support and expert lighting by Mark Henderson, a gussied-up staged reading, an unfortunate continuation of a trend for giving the audience less of a production for more bucks. No actress, not even a good one who can carry and sustain a vocal line with gravitas as Close more or less does, should be subjected to makeup and hair-design to rival anything from a horror movie. Close also wears that same collection of preposterous costumes by Anthony Powell that no self-respecting transvestite would be caught wearing. To her credit, Close fearlessly takes the dotty Norma Desmond’s eccentrics, as she did before, into a realm of pure and unadulterated dementia. There is a commendable stint in the musical by Fred Johanson, as the stiffly Teutonic butler and ex-husband Max. Speaking of a dead stiff, Norma’s lover Joe is played rather well as well by good-looking, body-crafted Michael Xavier. Tracy Christensen plays his lover Betty who, as we know, doesn’t stand a chance in hell against Norma. As you must recall, Joe tells the whole macabre story while floating face down in a pool...glug glug. I would like to remind theater-goers that Betty Buckley replaced Close a year into the run and showed us what really great singing voice could do with the score’s soaring demands. Her acting was pretty terrific as well. Close, however, reminds us 23 years later of how brilliantly she is still able to entrap us in that place where a pierced soul heart must learn to abide with a disintegrating heart. If that grim manse is no longer a showplace, it remains an impressive showcase for Close.
