"Something's slightly out of whack with the performances. There's some strong singing (Mazzie and Ziemba are vocal standouts), some expert clowning (Ashmanskas really knows how to chomp on a drumstick while selling a musical number) and some solid acting (Braff's characterization has a few extra notes of authenticity), but only in Cordero's performance do all three strengths triumphantly merge.
Being unqualified to have an opinion, I vowed never to comment on the scandal that has been engulfing Allen again. The issue didn't cross my mind as I enthusiastically set out to attend "Bullets," but the coarseness of some of the humor (a cringe-worthy number called "The Hot Dog Song," a dumb Thanksgiving joke with a punch line about raping a turkey) unpleasantly jogged my memory."
“Bullets Over Broadway” is the show everyone hoped would get those flickering Broadway lights blazing again. In certain wonderful ways — Susan Stroman’s happy-tappy dance rhythms, the dazzling design work on everything from proscenium curtain to wigs, and a fabulous chorus line of dancing dolls, molls and gangsters — Woody Allen’s showbiz musical is the answer to a Broadway tinhorn’s prayer. Surprisingly, though, the book (from Allen’s own screenplay for his 1994 film) is feeble on laughs, and certain key performers don’t seem comfortable navigating the earthy comic idiom of burlesque. So, let’s call it close — but no cigar.
"The weight of expectation hangs over “Bullets.” Stroman was last represented on Broadway with the poorly received “Big Fish,” while Allen has been engaged in another thrust-and-parry with the tabloid press --whatever your feelings about the director, there’s a great discussion in the first act about whether “the artist can be forgiven anything, if he produces great art.” What’s important here is this: Stroman’s brand of showmanship and Allen’s unparalleled wit go together, in the end, just like a hot dog and a roll."
Oh feel free to help out blaxx! I don't mind at all.
You’re really good at it.
By the way, as the season comes to an end, I would like to thank you for collecting these in an organized manner for us, as you did for several shows. It is really helpful, thanks a lot!
Listen, I don't take my clothes off for anyone, even if it is "artistic". - JANICE
I've noticed one critic mention the lack of diversity in the Bullets' cast members. I'm wondering to what extent will other critics follow along the same lines. It's something worth mentioning, I think.
"Noel [Coward] and I were in Paris once. Adjoining rooms, of course. One night, I felt mischievous, so I knocked on Noel's door, and he asked, 'Who is it?' I lowered my voice and said 'Hotel detective. Have you got a gentleman in your room?' He answered, 'Just a minute, I'll ask him.'" (Beatrice Lillie)
Just to give a pull quote from The Hollywood Reporter:
"The nominal lead, Braff has an amiably neurotic, low-key charm in his Broadway debut, acquitting himself well enough with his vocals and minimal dance requirements. But whereas the more intimate access of a movie screen gave vitality to John Cusack's take on the same role, here David kind of disappears. His relationship with Ellen is so thinly drawn that we have no reason to care whether or not they stay together. He's a reactive character who doesn't actually do a lot, and a musical requires someone to root for at its center, especially when surrounded by stock figures.
As the film's two most memorable characters – the vain, self-proclaimed Broadway legend and the crude, talentless wannabe – Mazzie and Yorke (Showtime's Masters of Sex) work hard. Too hard. Helen's big number, "They Go Wild, Simply Wild, Over Me," should be an uproarious bite of delusional fading divadom. But Mazzie's performance, while vocally impressive, lacks the sheer grande-dame insanity that earned Dianne Wiest an Oscar in the role – though "Don’t speak!" gets a huge laugh every time. Yorke sticks close to the Jennifer Tilly mold, and brings undeniable comic verve. But she's stuck with a bawdy, double entendre-laden burlesque number, "The Hot Dog Song," which feels out of place. It's also wildly overblown, coming off as the poor person's version of Stroman's bad-taste classic, "Springtime for Hitler," from The Producers."
"In an ideal universe, the new musical “Bullets Over Broadway,” based on the 1994 Woody Allen film, would shut down for a few months so that a talented songwriter – perhaps David Yazbek (“Dirty Rotten Scoundrels” or the young team of Benj Pasek and Justin Paul (“A Christmas Story”) – could pen an original score for it.
...
Although the show contains flashy design elements, amusing one-liners and generally decent performances, the decision to use jazz standards from the 1920s and 1930s instead of an original, well-integrated score proves to be absolutely fatal.
By pigeonholing these familiar tunes into the existing plot, they arrive randomly and have almost nothing to do with the characters or plot. For instance, the novelty song “Yes! We Have No Bananas” serves as the finale for no discernible reason."
Woody may have shot himself in the foot because of his disdain for any music before 1940. Would love to have seen Hamlisch write an original score for this.
Amazing so many different opinions but it is the same show. Just goes to show all a critic says is his or her opinion. It should not be written in stone that because so and so said this that means it is true.
I don't care what Brantley says, there is now no obvious Tony winner for Best Musical. And if they nominate five, this will be quite the award season fight...
As background one critic dismissed "Everyone Says I love You" as a dud. Far from it, it was an extremely fine film with a lovely performance (Singing included) from Goldie Hawn. "Bullets..." may indeed be a misfire (Songs poorly shoehorned from other sources may be the problem) but some of these critics definitely have an agenda.
Unfortunately many treat Brantley as God and what he says as the Lord speaking from on high. I do not listen to him or many critics. My wife and I decide what we want to see based on interests and we make up our own minds.