Better shows may be playing around New York right now, but I can't think of one I have more unfettered affection for than The Full Monty, the just-opened musical that manages to improve upon the charming 1997 British film on which it's based. The show is rough around the edges, and there's scant evidence of its reported $7 million budget (sets are effective, but chintzy), but every minute the show wants nothing more than to entertain you and give you a rollicking good time. And to my mind, there's nothing more noble or admirable in an age of musicals that may as well be performed by sock puppets, they're so vapid.
If you've seen the film, you basically know the story, though this time, the Sheffield setting is now Buffalo, New York (which, incidentally, happens to be my hometown), a change that actually enhances the story. Jerry Lukowski (the wonderful Patrick Wilson) is a thirtysomething father, out of work, trying to keep custody of his son (played by both Thomas Michael Fiss and Nicholas Cutro, depending on the night), which will require several back payments to his ex-wife (Lisa Datz). His best pal Dave Bukatinsky (John Ellison Conlee) is overweight, also unemployed and having marriage problems, something they both realize when trapped in a ladies' room at the start of the show, hearing of their spouses' disappointments. A flamboyant gay stripper (Denis Jones) appears in the loo and, after a slight scuffle with Jerry valiantly defending his masculinity, Jerry gets the idea that they should raise money by also becoming strippers. This leads to recruiting the neighborhood sad sacks, and they find a few. Malcolm (Jason Danieley) is a suicidal mama's boy with a pigeon chest, Ethan (Romain Fruge) is a super-hung dimwit, and Horse (Andre De Shields) is an older black man with a bad hip and a worse case of penis envy, dispelling popular myth. Jerry and Dave recruit their ex-boss Harold (Marcus Neville) to be their choreographer after they discover that he has lost his job as well and is keeping it from his sweet but spendaholic wife (Emily Skinner).
The boys from Buffalo soon learn strip-dancing's not as easy as it looks. And neither is the show. Watching Monty, you're aware of how many pratfalls it could have taken on its way from the screen to the stage. Wittily adapted by Terrence McNally (Master Class) and featuring nicely hummable tunes by relative newcomer David Yazbek, the production has all the makings of a major show but retains the dignity of a much smaller one as well.
The cast is a uniform treasure, comprising the best ensemble on the Great White Way right now. Filled with great performers that have unfortunately been featured in bombs over the past few years, they all get a chance to shine. Conlee is sweetly understated as Dave, never making his character a one-note joke; Danieley and Fruge are affecting as the closest of the troupe, Neville has dry wit to spare, and though slightly underused, De Shields is a dynamo (his "Big Black Man" number is a lot of fun). The women are equally fine, with Annie Golden a particular delight as Dave's ultra-patient wife, and veteran actress Kathleen Freeman a scream as the sextet's accompanist.
And then there's Patrick Wilson, who gives a star-making performance here. One of the aforementioned bad theater refugees (The Gershwins' Fascinating Rhythm, Bright Lights, Big City), he has always been above the material in lesser works but emerges as a true star here. Handsome without being plastic, appropriately avuncular but commanding too, and armed with a lovely singing voice, Wilson gives the show a real core. A lot of musicals fail to understand that acting is as important as singing and dancing, but this cast is effortless. Dialogue exchanges sound real and unforced, lacking the big gestures that some shows opt for. It makes the affair warmer and more personal, and despite the often raunchy repartee (at my performance, an elderly couple left just after bare buttocks were exposed), it feels inviting and lifelike.
Jack O'Brien's direction is first-rate, and the exuberance of the cast seems directly related to his smooth handling, as well as Jerry Mitchell's inventive choreography. It's not easy to create a show where the performers are not supposed to know how to dance, but Mitchell makes this believable and entertaining (and he's a busy guy too, also choreographing The Rocky Horror Show).
After groan-inducing attempts at recreating hit movies on stage (Saturday Night Fever anyone?), Monty proves there's life to be found in the concept. Rather than reiterate what the film already did, this production has a pulse of its own and wants you to be gleeful and jolly as you exit the theater. God bless 'em for it; the best part is, they succeed.
