February 10–17, 2000
theater
Heart Trouble
Patti LuPone: Matters of the Heart
Prince Music Theater, 1412 Chestnut St., through Feb. 13, 215-569-9700
Waiting for Patti LuPone to begin her one-woman concert, I pondered the curious fact that although musical theater and cabaret are closely related art forms, virtually no performer has been equally successful handling both. Barbara Cook, now one of the genuine legends of cabaret, might initially seem the exception (she is a Broadway veteran) — but no, by the mid-’70s when she was established as a diseuse, Cook had effectively closed the door on a stage career.
Now I think I know why. What works for one simply won’t work for the other. Case in point: Patti LuPone.
In a theatrical context, LuPone can have a lot going for her, chiefly genuine star presence. Her strong, mobile features were made for the stage. Her voice is a powerfully individual instrument — one would know her in an instant. In addition, LuPone is willing to make bold acting choices, and draws on a repertoire that includes some of musical theater’s finest songs. What more could you want?
Quite a bit more. Quite a bit less too. To begin, although the voice itself is first-rate, the way it’s used can be frightful. Virtually every note is approached with a slur, and between any two notes is an unwritten grace note. Rhythm and diction mean nothing to LuPone, who sacrifices both on the altar of "interpretation." When all this kicks in at the same time — and it often does — there’s more yodeling than singing.
The problems don’t stop there. In the theater, LuPone has been most successful in capitalizing on a presence (Evita, Reno Sweeney in Anything Goes) that is almost defiantly uningratiating. It can work for an actress — but a cabaret performer needs charm, and that’s about the last word one would associate with LuPone. Here, in an evening of love songs, the diva attempts to show a sentimental side, but the vulnerability seems like a put-on. "Go back to being a bitch," we want to shout. "That we believe."
It doesn’t help that the evening itself is a curious hybrid. Wanting to be more than just a concert, it boasts a book by the formidable John Weidman (Pacific Overtures), but in the end the scripted patter isn’t enough to give LuPone a character to work with. Very occasionally, she will find a song where her overwrought delivery works on its own terms ("Being Alive," "I Regret Everything"). But the pop ballads that comprise more than half the evening are simply embarrassing.
Heaven knows LuPone gives unstintingly of herself, and her devoted fans are almost evangelical in their support. I hope her nearly two-week engagement at the Prince breaks all house records — almost as much as I hope LuPone soon finds her way back to a staged theater piece that makes the most of her unusual qualities.
