Star power overcame any reluctance I had about going to a musical with a score by Adam Guettel, despite his lineage and success which at least must be partially attributed to nepotism. A walk to the Vivian Beaumont listening to the original cast recording of Floyd Collins suggested my eagerness to see Jeremy Jordan, mostly immobile in dirty overalls but in pristine voice, had been a mistake. Not a single song came closing to hooking me, although I reminded myself that I hadn't been a fan of Pacific Overtures, my first Sondheim musical, either. Maybe I'll grow to love "How Glory Goes," or at least tolerate the vocalizing intended to evoke a cave's echoing but I doubt it.
What is it about celebrating old exploited white guys this season on Broadway? Like Dead Outlaw (vastly more entertaining!), Floyd Collins, also an actual historical figure from the early 20th century, becomes famous for the tragedy that befalls him. Trapped in a cave for two weeks, he becomes a household name thanks to an interview with an intrepid newspaper reporter. The story, eventually broadcast all over the nation by the emergence of radio, lures thousands of Americans to congregate at the site in Kentucky, nearly fulfilling his dream in a final cruel irony. Only the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby got more ghoulish traction in the press.
But nothing--not a well constructed-book fleshed out with some believable social and family dynamics and superb direction (both by Tina Landau) or terrific performances (especially by the menschy Taylor Trensch as the cub reporter), not even a blindingly white number in heaven that frees Jordan from his chaise lounge--can save this tuneless show from becoming an ever-so-respectable snooze fest.
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