Review: “Little Shop of Horrors” at The Muny

I’m hot, I’m tired and I’m cranky. Got home from The Muny’s production of Little Shop of Horrors at 11:00pm, got up for the ol’ day job at 4:30 this morning. Nonetheless, it is my sworn, solemn duty (not to mention jobbo #2) to convey my impressions and experiences of viewing said performance, and to do so with only the degree of snark duly merited by the situation, my crankitude notwithstanding. I am borne aloft in my endeavor by my personal adoration for this show. Remember back when I reviewed Evil Dead: The Musical? Yes, I’m sure you do. I have no doubt that each of you has fastidiously archived my every keystroke, biding your time that someday you might be called upon for just such a cross-reference; well blow open the vaults, your moment of triumph is nigh! That was undue snark right there, wasn’t it? Innyhoo, not only is it the only other musical I’ve reviewed in this forum, but it, too, had personal resonance, as I am a fan of the film(s) on which it was based, not having seen the stage show before doing so for Look/Listen. In the case of Little Shop, I’m just a dork for the whole shebang. The Muny’s current production reminded me why, some twenty-five years ago, the theater-geek I then was went all crushy for this charming, slightly unsettling delight. (I’m totally doing that awful heart-shape thing with my fingers.)

My crush is younger than the musical by a couple of years; I first recall awareness of the show’s reputation around age 14 (1984, to you). Based on Roger Corman’s 1960 non-musical black and white b-movie (okay, c), writer/lyricist Howard Ashman and composer Alan Menken birthed their baby off-Broadway in 1982. It quickly garnered excitement and awards, and by the time it had closed in third place for longest off-Broadway run, an Oscar-nominated Hollywood version had been made by Warner Brothers, screenplay by Ashman. Set in the year of Corman’s flick, as reflected by the doo-wop and girl-group sounds of the songs, Little Shop is a fun send-up of sci-fi and monster movies, peppered with satire of commercialism, celebrity and the American Dream.  In a tattered flower shop on Skid Row, all-American schlemiel Seymour Krelborn (Rob McClure) toils for its proprietor, Mr. Mushnik (Raye Birk), who essentially indentured him as an orphan. There Seymour works alongside the girl of his dreams, Audrey (Alli Mauzey), who secretly dreams of a suburban, plastic future with him. Alas, she’s “a girl with a past” who has cast her lot with a sadistic, abusive boyfriend, Dr. Orin Scrivello, DDS (Clarke Thorell). Out flower shopping for odd plants one day, Seymour is caught in a sudden total eclipse of the sun—as will happen—whereafter he espies a specimen, newly appeared among the others. Naming it Audrey II, for his beloved, he’s frustrated by its seeming ill health, until he discovers its snack of choice: human blood. Fortified by Seymour’s own life essence, Audrey II thrives, attracting business to Mushnik’s and attention to Seymour. All seems well until Audrey II pipes up and starts making demands (in the voice of Ken Page) for more human deli. Soon folks go missing, while Seymour’s star is rising, oh, where will it all end?

Part of the genius of Little Shop of Horrors is its refusal to pretend lofty ambitions. It’s a larf, plain and simple. Serving the levity is its structure, which is much closer to a light comic opera than the traditional talk-then-sing musical theater convention. There’s scant spoken dialogue, leaving most plot-points, character revelation and exposition to be revealed through song, which makes for some funny stuff when the subject is a man-eating plant. Much revelation is left to a girl-group-cum-Greek-chorus comprised of Crystal, Chiffon and Ronette (Alysha Deslorieux, Brené Jackson and Jen Brissman)—their names a wink to the show’s sonic inspiration. This particular trio’s slick harmonic interplay had me thinking of another comic opera trio: the Three Ladies from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Its small cast and verbally intricate lyrics have made it popular with college and community theaters, because it doesn’t demand a huge space and grand production numbers. I had concerns that this might be a problem down in Muny gorge. Times before I’ve had trouble with consonants as amplified from the actors’ lavalier microphones, but barring some wind noise and costume ruffling, the mic sound was pretty sharp. It doesn’t hurt that the splendid cast employs super-crisp diction.

Their elocution aside, how were their performances, you sleep-deprived ninny?, I envision you impatiently asking, shaking a fist at your iPad. (In my snoozy funk, I can’t help but imagine you cranky, too) Well, they’re just plain great. This should surprise no one, as the Muny perennially brings in top-notch professional talent for their shows. Rob McClure’s Seymour is a classic nebbish-y bumbler whose sweetness radiates to the free seats. He works some broad physicality into Seymour, a must for the slapstick moments; he’s also called upon to manipulate an early incarnation of Audrey II like a hand-puppet, to particular comedic effect. Singing in character, he subtly tames a gifted voice until it’s needed to shine, as it does in “Suddenly, Seymour” with Alli Mauzey’s Audrey. Her voice’s strength is established early on, notably “Somewhere That’s Green,” and when they duet, her skilled trills and melisma counter McClure’s straightforward clarity. After all, she’s the dolled-up hottie and he’s the simple stockboy. They’re a great pair. Though, did he flub a line in “Grow for Me”? Ah, welcome to live theater!

As Mr. Mushnik, Raye Birk has a lot of baggage to tote, but unfortunately not a fully realized character to work with. Brass tacks: he’s the age-old stereotypical money-grubbing Jew. He speaks Yinglish most of the time, only cares for Seymour when he sees dollar signs, coaxes bigger purchases even when the going’s good. One can only blame Ashman and Menken for not sifting more of this stuff out when they wrote the show, as there’s a lot of this and more in Corman’s movie, including an overbearing mother and the groaningly named “Siddie Shiva,” who’s reduced to a client name in the musical. None of this is Birk’s fault of course, and he takes on Mushnik with gusto. He’s a fine singer and has some great Vaudeville-style dancing with Seymour on “Mushnik and Son,” though overall that number was a bit rough.

The true star of the show, as any graphic you’ve ever seen related to it will attest, is Audrey II, the man-flesh ravenous plant. Even if this weren’t a darned good show already I’d be telling you to go for St. Louis native Ken Page alone. This is “Oogie-Boogie” from Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas, here, people! Oogie as Audrey II! You don’t get to see this kind of thing often. Page’s rangy baritone, like a more in-control Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, fits the bill for the seductive, sinister funk of Audrey II’s numbers. I’d love a chance to hear him do “Mean, Green Mother From Outer Space,” which was written for the 1986 musical film. Since we never see the source of the voice, Page has solely his voice to form the character. His supplication “feed me” goes from a plaintive whine to a thunderous command. His being off-stage seemed to spawn a couple of miscues, both with the puppeteer manipulating “Two-y,” as Seymour calls the demon weed, and with his on-stage co-stars, notably in the climax to the song, “Feed Me”—I couldn’t tell if it was Two-y or Seymour, but one wasn’t singing what the other one was. Michael Latini, operating the full-size versions of Audrey II, deserves special commendation and an ice bath. To be inside a Fiat-sized mass of foam and God-knows-what-else on a July evening in St. Louis and make that painted mass come alive is nothing short of extraordinary.

Rounding out the cast is Clarke Thorell as, well, everybody else. His principal role is as Audrey’s abuser, the dentist Orin Scrivello. “Dentist” is one of the show’s great numbers. We’ve been introduced to Orin as a biker-boy, outfitted like ’68 comeback Elvis, with a twang to match. When explaining his profession, the biker-jacket falls to reveal dental scrubs as he sings a soaring, lyric ode to his momma and her encouragement of his childhood bent for torture. He eats it up, inflecting his voice with the signature quirks of the period, prancing lightly about the stage in some hokey show-steps, and giving a shout-out to the free-seats. His load also includes a coterie of those who would exploit Seymour, three of whom he embodies in one number, with dizzyingly quick costume changes behind the scrim. He’s gosh-darn fun to watch.

If I have one major quarrel with this production it’s that it is at the Muny. I love our grand institution in Forest Park just as much as the next home-town booster, but geez it’s not a conducive environment for watching a live play. Even a bombastic spectacle (which Little Shop is decidedly not) deserves the respect of its audience, but seemingly no degree of advance admonition can force people to stop texting, talking out loud, putting bare feet up on the seat in front of them, staying seated until curtain-call, etc. The permission of soft-side coolers has led to the doling out of sandwiches, consultations on what Johnny or Janey might like to drink, and all manner of digging around loudly while there are, get this, live humans performing on stage! It’s two hours—you gotta have nachos and crunch them loudly next to me? I could hear general, broad positive audience reaction to laugh lines and slapstick, but it seems everywhere I looked I saw no one paying attention, as if it were a ball game. Two more gripes: 1. If you’re going to a show, do three seconds of research as to what you might be seeing. I know programs and banners with a red-lipped, fanged plant and blood dripping lettering can be vague and confusing, so you might preempt your shock by knowing the slightest bit about what you have paid to go see. 2. Please, Muny, ban people from bringing in electric fans. They’re noisy and annoying.

I said no undue snark.

So, clearly I have my complaints, but none are with this show itself. My objections to the setting aside, I heartily encourage anyone to go see this show. It itself, Little Shop of Horrors is a fine, fun piece of musical comedy, but I especially enjoyed this production. It’s clear, funny, briskly paced, and exceedingly well performed. Focus hard and you might not even notice the melty Chipwich dripping on your knee from the seat next-door. Enjoy! I’m going to bed.