Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown Broadway Reviews

Best of all is a surprisingly engaging score by David Yazbek (Dirty Rotten Scoundrels), who deploys a variety of Latin rhythms to make everything from patter songs to wistful laments stand out from the generic-Broadway crowd.

A yummy confection of silly romantic comedy, seductive Latin music, alluring visuals and high-powered performances, 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown' is a musical comedy certain to amuse anyone craving frivolous, tuneful entertainment on Broadway.

'Women on the Verge' is a farce, and this poses a strategic challenge for a musical. Farce is about momentum, which is hard to sustain in musicals, where the songs require the actors to stand and deliver. 'Women on the Verge' meets the stop-start rhythm problem best in Laura Benanti's manic, sensational number as the model Candela, 'Model Behavior,' in which she skitters from phone to phone, babbling about her shallow life. The show's best and most moving song, 'Invisible'—Lucia's psychological aria about her lost life, superbly performed by LuPone—breaks the farce convention and just about gets away with it. In the end, with admirable effort, 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown' picks up speed and flies, but never quite high enough.

'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown' is far from perfect. But there's enough going on to see this particular glass of gazpacho as half-full.

Mr. Yazbek's Spanish-inflected music is upbeat and catchy, and his smart lyrics are sometimes laugh-out-loud funny. The costumes (by Catherine Zuber) are awesomely bright and zany (her leopard-print Spy-vs.-Spy ensemble for Ms. LuPone's entrance deserves its own Tony), and the sets (by Michael Yeargan) are similarly spectacular.

Despite its flaws, I still must recommend warmly this musical. Songs like 'Model Behavior' (performed by a deliciously playful Laura Benanti), 'Yesterday, Tomorrow and Today' (Brian Stokes Mitchell), 'Tangled,' and 'Invisible' (Patti LuPone) are gems that will stay with you after you leave the theatre. And if the production doesn't bring all the expected beauty, joy, and intensity, it's still worth spending time with these women and men in search of love.

It took me a while to understand my disappointment in Lincoln Center Theater's musical adaptation of Pedro Almodóvar's 1988 film 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown,' now at the spectacularly restored Belasco Theatre. There had been much to enjoy: Jeffrey Lane's frequently funny book, David Yazbek's perfectly professional Latin-infused songs, a stellar cast at the top of its game, and Bartlett Sher's fluid staging that combines with a highly imaginative physical production to capture Almodóvar's idiosyncratic visual style and editing rhythms. Yet the show hadn't jelled. Eventually, a light dawned. 'Women' is what composer Mary Rodgers calls a 'Why?' musical. It has no compelling reason to sing; it's just the original property with songs dropped in.

The frustrating thing about Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown is that it is not bad; it is merely unready. Had the show opened out of town, many of its narrative troubles might have been fixable. (The current version exhibits scars of last-minute show-doctoring.) But in its current form, it seems lost among the streets of Madrid—always on the verge of breaking through, but finding itself instead in the soup.

The joy of Almodóvar's film is the profound simplicity of its whirligig emotional truth. Sadly, that quality has been lost in the Broadway shuffle. This new musical adaptation of 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown,' which opened Thursday in a Lincoln Center Theater production at the Belasco Theatre, has many things in its favor. Chief among them is a glittering constellation of theatrical divas, featuring the one and only Patti LuPone as a kind of deranged den mother. But the show is hampered by a faltering score by David Yazbek ('The Full Monty,' 'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels') and a crucial bit of miscasting. Pepa, the protagonist thrown into a tailspin after her man cuts her loose, is played here by Sherie Rene Scott, a charming musical theater star but one with about as much Mediterranean earthiness as Barbara Bush or Paris Hilton.

It's not the thin gruel some had feared, but it's also not a spicy knock out - at least not yet. Mostly, it's just a bloated dish, with too much repetition and too much thrown up on stage, as if the chefs were trying to dazzle with as many ingredients as possible.

No one is helped by Yazbek's songs, which sound like Latin-flavored Muzak. LuPone's Invisible follows a monologue that becomes, in her hands, the show's dramatic high point. You half-expect her to launch into one of her showstopping arias, but all she gets is a loungey trifle. The actress, like many on Women on the Verge's illustrious team, deserves better. So do audiences.

There's a 20-foot-high recipe for gazpacho printed on the curtain that rises on Lincoln Center Theater's 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.' If only a giant recipe for making a decent musical had been available to the makers of this major Broadway letdown, which squanders so much stage talent.

The recipe for gazpacho is scrawled large across the curtain at Lincoln Center Theater's 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.' Like the dish in question, the new Almodovarsical is refreshing, peppery and palate-cleansing, but it is still, in the end, cold tomato soup -- invigorating and highly spiced, but not satisfying enough for a full meal or a full evening's entertainment. Tuner is blessed with some delicious performances and any number of items of interest, but the result can be summed up as women (and men) on the verge of a coherent musical.

It's tempting to dismiss the new musical adaptation of Pedro Almodóvar's seminal 1988 movie farce Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown as a hot mess. But in truth, this ill-conceived Broadway production is more of a lukewarm gazpacho — which is almost fitting since a version of the dish, seasoned with Valium, figures prominently in the plot.

Considering the extremely high caliber of its cast, creative team and source material, 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown' was supposed to be the hit musical of the fall. Instead, it has turned out to be a hot mess of the highest pedigree.

Jeffrey Lane's script skims over the story's frenetic events hurriedly, following the screenplay rather than making theatrical capital from it; David Yazbek's songs, some of which have possibilities, seem eager to weave themselves into the context, like movie music, instead of rising to show-music heights. And, though I never imagined I'd write this sentence, Bartlett Sher's direction lacks clarity, and Christopher Gattelli's choreography lacks point.

Your eye will never get weary in a visit to 'Women on the Verge,' but you're still likely to come out of the experience feeling shortchanged.

Heroic efforts from the remarkable singing actresses Laura Benanti, Patti LuPone and Sherie Rene Scott and the equally accomplished Brian Stokes Mitchell can't disguise the fact that 'Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown' is an unholy mess.

A story that might have worked as a door-slamming stage farce ends up having no reason to sing. Musicals generally require sweeping sentiments, and while Almodovar's 'Women on the Verge' has charm to burn, it lacks the emotional depth of the director's later, richer movies, or even the molten melodrama of earlier works like 'Law of Desire.'

The show-stealing performance comes from a laugh-out-loud Laura Benanti, as Candela, a model who's accidentally hooked up with Madrid's most-wanted terrorist. She turns 'Model Behavor,' a song made up of ever more desperate phone calls to Pepa, into a delirious jolt of joy.

Given a high-powered cast like this one, everything might have come up roses anyway, but Ms. Scott, who is about as Spanish as I am, turns in a chirpy, lightweight performance that conveys nothing of Pepa's sensuality. (Carmen Maura, who played the same character in the film, was the very embodiment of that savory quality.) Ms. Benanti, by contrast, makes a bold and energetic impression as Candela, galloping away with the best-in-show ribbon. Mr. Mitchell's part, however, borders on outright invisibility, while Ms. LuPone's spectacular gifts are wasted in a supporting role that allows her to do little but sing two forgettable songs and run around tearing her hair.

Ms. Scott, Ms. LuPone and Mr. Mitchell, marvelous though they have all been elsewhere, here seem to be preoccupied with other matters, like where they'll be having dinner after the show. In that sense, I identified with them completely.

Like, say, its recent Broadway predecessor '9 to 5,' the show gets hopelessly trapped in the succession of very short scenes - in this case, set everywhere from taxi cabs to Telefono boxes - that make up farcical films. By midway through the second act, the audience can no longer track the multicharacter action through chaos suited only for film, and palpably checks out of the entire proceedings.