Those early days of the 2000 pandemic may be a blur for some of us. Not so for Rachel Bloom, who was nine months pregnant when Los Angeles shut down. Within days she was giving birth in an overrun hospital, exuberantly singing “Space Jam” as a camera (poised overhead, thankfully) recorded the momentous event.
Bloom is treasured by many for her no-filter willingness to share her innermost emotions: good, questionable, and occasionally outright disturbing. You will not soon forget a monologue segment involving her aging dog, Wylie, and a capful of freshly expressed breast milk. Set an outer limit of “good taste”? Bloom will go there, and bust through.
It’s her love for Wylie, in fact, that impels this out-there exploration of life’s imponderables, starting with the biggie: Death. The show’s publicists asked opening-night critics not to reveal a surprise presence in this presumably solo show, but they have since relented. Stop reading here, should you wish to be taken by surprise (Death’s signature modus operandi, in any case).
[Read David Finkle’s ★★☆☆☆ review here.]
The Grim Reaper, in the nondescript flesh, has a co-starring role here in the form of David Hull, a colleague whom Bloom describes as a “moderately successful actor who seems stuck between leading man and character roles.” Hull seems a likable enough guy, when not employing a hyper-amped “demon voice” sufficient to rattle the Lortel’s rafters (sound by Alex Neumann and Beth Lake). His diatribe is so unsettling, it succeeds in deconstructing Beowulf Boritt’s Vegas-y set with a bang. Death’s agenda: To scare Bloom into confessional authenticity. It’s a given that she’ll resist and skitter in protest.
Director Seth Barrish, midwife to Mike Birbiglia’s meteoric solo-show career, has helped to shape this provocative memento mori. Bloom first enters sporting a glitter-bomb of a pantsuit (costumes by Kristin Isola) and exuding showbiz elan. Her opening ditty – “Darling, Meet Me under the Cum Tree,” performed whilst twirling a lace parasol – would have made her the toast of Piccadilly Circus a century ago.
Subsequent songs – nonspecifically credited to a quartet of composers including Suffs’ Shaina Taub – show off Bloom’s genuine gifts as a singer. “Lullaby for a Newborn,” with its panic-stricken extrapolations – her daughter came into an already topsy-turvy world with complications – is a heart-wrencher. Hull, as the outcast Death, gets to deliver the parody/critique “I Feel Just Like Dear Evan Hansen.” The pinnacle, though, is Bloom’s scatological takedown of a soppy kitsch mythos known as “the rainbow bridge.”
Never heard of it? Neither had Bloom before she started obsessing about her dog’s presumed expiration date, which inevitably forced her to face up to her own. With signature panache and zero regard for propriety, Bloom uses this mawkish fantasy to tie her shambolic musings into one neat, colorful, hilarious bow.
Death, Let Me Do My Show opened September 14, 2023, at the Lucille Lortel Theatre and runs through September 30. Tickets and information: lortel.org
