The Rocky Horror Show: Let’s Not (Do The Time Warp Again), And Say We Did

Rocky Horror lives – in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, that is, made on a shoestring in 1975. A Frankenstein spoof mixed with transvestism, kinky sex and threatening space aliens, it was released to the sound of crickets, but over time has been embraced by worldwide millions at midnight showings for its healthy anarchy, catchy tunes, tacky yet heartfelt mise en scène, unbridled audience participation opportunities, and the “Give yourself over to absolute pleasure” message that was a rallying cry through much of the last half of the last century.

But that’s the movie. The original live stage version, sans Picture, has been exhumed in revival under the Roundabout aegis. And on the evidence, it’s time to bid the sucker farewell, particularly as staged here: large, loud, and expensive in a setting utterly unsuited to it. Virtually everything that “made” the Rocky Horror experience is traduced or ignored at Studio 54.

Anyone taking on the stage version is, let’s face it, automatically caught between a Rocky and a hard place. Recreate all the cinematic tropes, business and line readings, and you’re left with no room for originality. Deviate from any of that, and you court the fury of the fans and true believers. Rocky Horror is not the property to choose to demo a director’s creative chops. Oh, Mary! was, and won Sam Pinkleton a Tony Award; here he seems to shrug into the path of least resistance somewhere between slavish copying and the occasional fresh touch, and an overall blandless results.

[Read Michael Sommers’  ★★☆☆☆ review here.]

At its core, Rocky Horror possesses the soul of an Edinburgh Fringe midnight entry: scrappy, two-planks-and-a-passion messiness plus an infusion of glitter, torn stockings and bustiers. Built to be as unpretentious as the “late nite double feature picture shows from RKO” author Richard O’Brien took as his model, it practically screams for cheapness, immersion, and intimacy, which the last Broadway outing in 2000 just about achieved at Circle-in-the-Square. But at Studio 54 we are at such a remove, the onstage action might as well be an Aquacade. And the scale! The design collective dots piles on levels and candles into the rafters, lit by Jane Cox with enough wattage to power a midsized Midwestern city, all of which serves to point up (even as it tries to distract us from) the paltriness of the material.

Nor is the cast well served by having to perform in front of this leviathan. Almost defensively, they steadfastly follow the standard O’Brien playbook, some equaling it and others falling short. Luke Evans nails Dr. Frank N. Furter’s smug preening in his first number, “Sweet Transvestite,” but the other memorable colors added by the first Frank, Tim Curry, are nowhere in evidence: the vulnerability, the paternal pride in his titular creation (Josh Rivera, adequate), and the heartbreak when his cronies betray him. (To be fair, that last moment is staged so poorly, it can go by without anyone noticing.) Juliette Lewis and Harvey Guillén add nothing much as, respectively, Magenta and the ineffective Eddie/Dr. Scott doubling, though Andrew Durand acceptably channels Barry Bostwick’s cinematic nerd Brad Majors or “Ass Hole,” as he’s known in one of the numerous – and in a live setting, numbingly tedious – audience call-outs.

The pompous Criminologist speaks to none of SNL veteran Rachel Dratch’s strengths. Lacking physical or academic authority, she’s saddled with an Oscar Wilde wig and dressing gown to mouth platitudes that Pinkleton unaccountably insists We Must Listen To, except that none of them lands with a punchline, so each speech keeps sucking out the show’s oxygen. As for Amber Gray, so heavenly in Hadestown, if she chooses to be unrecognizable in Hallowe’en garb and makeup as Frank’s scraggly deputy Riff Raff, what must the roles she turns down be like? Only Stephanie Hsu, the powerhouse of Everything Everywhere All At Once, decidedly scores, taking Janet Weiss (“Slut!”) through a believable character arc from innocent to seductress. She alone seems to understand that sheer posturing is not enough if a story that grabs us is to be told.

The production assumes that what was transgressive and shocking in 1975 remains so 50 years later. But  the battle for alternative lifestyles has been fought and won, on Broadway at least, and you need only look at the late Slave Play or Prince Faggot, or Cats: The Jellicle Ball ten blocks down, as evidence that this isn’t your grandpa’s Great White Way any longer. With such audacious and groundbreaking efforts around, the woo-woo, Oh My! How Daring, sexual teasing of Rocky Horror comes across as not just quaint, but as downright geriatric as a Sigmund Romberg operetta. The movie remains to charm us. But there’s no longer a place for Abie’s Irish Rose or Getting Gertie’s Garter on our legitimate stages, and I have no qualms about nominating The Rocky Horror Show to join them as a theater history relic.