Am I the only one on this planet who didn't see the movie? If so, lucky me because I enjoyed Disney's virgin theatrical venture, Beauty and the Beast, far more than those who gripe that it's a pale (and slavish) imitation of the animated film. One can say that Disney concentrated on spectacle, but ironically, the sets and "illusions" aren't particularly impressive. Sure, the Beast's castle and the Will Rogers Follies-style glitzcapade (for "Be Our Guest") earn applause, but there's no trick to building grandly imposing sets and then flying them in and out; theater's magic comes from using as few design elements as necessary to capture the idea of time and space. On that level, Beauty's foggy wolves and flashing lights seem downright quaint. No, what count are the story and the performers (Jeff McCarthy is the current Bete, Sarah Uriarte the Belle).
Ballads here tend to be run-of-the-mill, while big production numbers get the blood pumping. Ultimately, with inspired support from, among others, a grandfather-clocked Heath Lamberts and a hilarious tumbling rug, Beauty succeeds as love story, object lesson, and winning (if sometimes overmiked) Broadway entertainment.
