Circles can symbolize unity or closure, but they can also convey inertia, stasis, even claustrophobia. The Kansas City Repertory Theatre’s production of Kander & Ebb’s Cabaret at Spencer Theatre uses the circle to represent all of those things, by placing the action on a rotating central disc and seating the audience “in the round”—a configuration created by installing semi-circular rows of seats in what would normally be the upstage area. The result is an intimate experience in which we almost feel we are attending the Kit Kat Klub ourselves, experiencing first-hand a dramatic arc that moves from the party-like atmosphere of Act 1 to the sinister encroach of Nazism in Act 2. The production is sleek, beautifully designed and well-directed by the company’s artistic director, Eric Rosen, with affecting performances and strong accompaniment by the musicians in the pit (led by Anthony T. Edwards).
Rosen makes liberal use of the rotating stage (“a world spinning out of control”?), always making sure the action is pointing outward in all directions, so that anyone in the nearly-360-degree theater gets a good show. (Those seated upstage doubtless experienced a further “metatheatrical” element, as they were able to peer backstage and watch cast and crew in action between scenes.) Ensemble numbers were often “aimed outward,” and soloists had constantly to turn hither and fro. There were even two of the brightly lit “Cabaret” signs, one facing downstage and one upstage, which were switched on during the Kit Kat Klub scenes. (Significantly, in the brooding Act 2, a number of the bulbs on these signs are “burned out,” cleverly marking the social and economic decay all around.)
Cabaret is full of great songs, including “Willkommen,” “What Would You Do,” “The Money Song” and of course “Cabaret.” The play does, however, take a good half-hour to work up steam, partly because a preponderance of rather conventional “book” numbers in Act 1 (“Perfectly Marvelous,” “Married”). There is plenty of 1960s razzle-dazzle in the music—at times making the piece seem oddly dated—and moments of cornball. (“I like this whole city,” Cliff chimes. “It’s so tacky and terrible and everybody’s having a great time.”) But by the end of Act 1 we get a whiff of what Berlin would become in the 1930s, and the jarring Act 1 finale is deftly designed: As Fräulein Kost and her vociferous ensemble of budding Nazis sing triumphantly at the center of the rotating circle (“Tomorrow Belongs to Me”), the leads lurk worriedly in the darkly lit perimeter. It is a troubling moment that foreshadows a gloomy Act 2.
The performances were, on the whole, quite strong, beginning with Kara Lindsay as a convincing Sally Bowles. She has all the charisma and pizzazz you would expect of a successful cabaret performer, and if her vocal vibrato was at times exaggeratedly wide, she conveyed with equal aplomb Sally’s brazen confidence in Act 1 (“He’s just the man I’m living with—this week”) and the vulnerability of her big final number (“Cabaret”). Hollis Resnik played Fräulein Schneider, Cliff’s meddlesome landlady, with a core of tensile inner strength; her singing was perhaps the best of the evening. As the flamboyant Master of Ceremonies, Brian Sills exaggerated his foreign accents a bit but burned brightly, displaying a wild array of subtle emotions from cynicism to cagy aloofness. Claybourne Elder played Clifford Bradshaw as a gee-whizzy American naïf, affecting in his intimate moments but seeming a bit forced and soft-at-the-center in the angry outbursts in Act 2. Gary Neal Johnson was moving as befuddled Herr Schultz, and Charles Fugate’s Ernst had an aptly arch quality. The ensemble sang and danced admirably, in winning choreography by Richard J. Hinds. Jack Magaw’s set designs were dowdy where necessary—a bed, a writing-table, a dresser—and quite inventive in the party scene, where tall pedestals filled with Schultz’s oranges felt as precarious as the tension mounting between Ernst and the engaged couple.
We yearn to find a glimmer of hope at the end of Cabaret, but it escapes us. Fascism reigns, and we suspect dear Herr Schultz will perish, along with millions of others. Cliff is gay and in denial, and Sally is having an abortion. The cabaret dancers are demoralized and glum, and when Sally sings “Come to the cabaret, old chum,” no one joins in. The only spark of hope is that Cliff realizes he can finally begin his book—a sad tale of events the likes of which will be repeated throughout history, over and over.
The Rep’s Cabaret runs through April 10th. For tickets call 816-235-2700 or go to www.kcrep.org.
To reach Paul Horsley, performing arts editor, send email to phorsley@sbcglobal.net.
