by Arthur Laurents
Directed by Arthur Laurents
At the Palace Theatre, New York
Open run

   Whether you prefer to call it a movement musical or lyric theatre, the fact remains that West Side Story has the shortest libretto on record for a Broadway show and tells its story primarily through music and dance. All you need to do to be convinced of these points is watch the opening number with its sharp chord, dissonant finger snapping, guided gradually by a single, piercing orchestral note that ascends in pitch. The action is a dramatic condensation of gang rivalry, with the Caucasian Jets executing arabesques with little skips and jazz steps, and the darker Puerto Rican Sharks using more martial semaphores, with balled-up fists either pulled behind the back or trust out in swift karate movements. The tension is built in dance vocabulary drawn from classical ballet, gymnastics, and martial arts, and though Jerome Robbins’ original choreography is by now too well known to aficionados, it is dynamically reproduced by Joey McKneely and superbly performed.

   Then there is a scene in the second act with its briefest of lead-ins to a significant song that augments the tension and enhances the action. Karen Olivo’s sultry Anita knocks on the door to the bedroom where Josefina Scaglione’s Maria and Matt Cavenaugh’s Tony have just made love—with Tony’s slipping away through the window. When Anita is let in, she finds her convincing evidence of the dangerous romance between the two ill-starred lovers from rival gangs, and this becomes her cue for the impassioned, blood-curdling “A Boy Like That.”

   Movement and music—these are the fuel-rich catalysts in the show. The dance in the gym is brilliantly executed, as are the Puerto Rican Mambo, “America,” and “Cool.” The dream ballet, too, with its boy soprano, is deftly achieved, so I have nothing but praise for the choreography and execution. Circular and triangular patterns dominate with intriguing permutations for the apex and base of each triangle. Though time has not been especially kind to the libretto with its corny slang (frabber jabber, daddy-o, etc), some incongruous lyrics, paper-thin characters, and predictable action, Leonard Bernstein’s score remains amazingly marvelous in its operatic starkness or lushness. Arthur Laurents, who did not direct the original production, gets to put a spin on his own libretto by inviting Lin-Manuel Miranda (sensational star and librettist of In The Heights) to translate passages of dialogue and songs into Spanish for the Sharks and their girls. My only wish is that there had been more Spanish in these instances, for the bilingual version gives the show a special exotic credibility with singular flash and flourish. The linguistic readjustment certainly helps Maria when she sings the most sickeningly sweet lyric Stephen Sondheim ever invented (“I Feel Pretty”), because a non-Hispanic doesn’t have to listen to the English original. It also helps for the clashes of the sexes on the Sharks side and for a few intimate domestic moments between Maria and Anita—especially Karen Olivo’s Anita, who is the most vivid, interesting character on stage at all times, who dances with the flair of a Chita Rivera and who acts with even greater force, though her voice sometimes shows fatigue in the low notes.

   Ms. Olivo shows up the acting weaknesses of others and a “cheesiness” in the production. Ms. Scaglione is a beautiful Maria who sings superbly, but her acting is not exquisite. She has a rather lackluster Tony in Matt Cavenough who generally sings well but whose acting is on the weak side, though he is not without a small vulnerability. Their dance duet to the sound of a slow cha-cha is one of the romantic highlights. The best of the ensemble in terms of acting are John Arthur Greene’s muscular Riff, Sara Dobbs’ Anybodys (ever yearning to be accepted and useful), Ryan Steele’s soft, sensitive Baby John, Steve Bassett’s racist Lt. Schrank, and George Akram’s sleek, dangerous Bernardo.

   While the costumes by David C. Woolard uses colour effectively as gang codes and the lighting design (by Howell Binkley) uses colour for dramatic mood shifts, the scenic design (by James Youmans) is pedestrian with its mixture of concrete walls and iron balconies that look prosaic rather than poetic. However, Youmans does score with his ominous décor for the big Rumble, so his scenery is not a total write-off.

   Overall, this production scores well in its music and dancing. It is exuberant, chilling, tender and raw. It even has nervous excitement and romance. But somehow the elements do not mix well enough to produce—or, more accurately, reproduce a masterpiece. Certain problems can be laid at the door of the original libretto in which “Gee, Officer Krupke,” for instance, sticks out like a vaudevillian diversion. But Laurents must also take the blame for not getting the most of his ensemble in the acting sphere, and for not sustaining a tragic mood in what is really a modern urban American version of the Romeo and Juliet story.  

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