This could be the start of a new genre, in fact: supermarket novels into musicals.
The score by composer Laurence O’Keefe (who also did the lyrics with John Claflin) exhumes the full paraphernalia of the Hispanic musical manner at its most obvious: the tum-ta-dum drumbeats, the obsession with 6/8 meter, the slinky harmonies. They all worked for “La Mancha” (and for “Carmen” as well); here they are stuck to a featureless parlando that never quite takes musical shape.
There seems little point in trying to revive a throwback style without the one element — the tunes — that made the old shows assume the semblance of life.
On the other hand, the production offers sound, scenery and lighting up the bazooty. Under David Galligan’s hyper-virtuosic direction, the stage is alive with fancy effects — smoke, mirrors, swags of fabric to render spooky the climactic battle scene, slithering dancers executing Daniel Ezralow’s athletic choreography — and with splendid talent as well.
Julie Heron’s Florinda spans a wide range, from lovelorn juvenile to castoff mistress; one longs, but in vain, for a truly memorable repentant-whore number for her that might carry the show.
Jeffrey Rockwell is a sturdy king; Ellen Harvey wrings some deserved sympathy as his wronged queen. Gary Imhoff’s Storyteller is light and lively — but has nobody noticed that this particular piece of plot gadgetry is somewhat overused these days?
Then again, so is most of the dramatic mechanism of this show. From “Floradora” to “Florinda” is not as far as you’d think.
