Live theatre can do a lot of things to you. It can bore you ’til your bones rattle or thrill you ’til you think your brain will explode from the pressure of the experience. It can preach worthy lessons or teach simple truths - or some combination of both. It can cover up a deception or an injustice in a bluster of tits, teeth and tap-dancing or shine a bright light into dark areas by the same means. It can force you to confront yourself and your views or gently chide you for being wrong while showing you how to be right.
It can turn on great, extraordinary sets and costumes and dazzle you with the razzle of its visual illusions. It can provide a platform for single extraordinary performances, of the kind that any proud Grandparent would boast to eager listening grandchild ears, “I was there when…”. It can discover stars, by accident or design. It can force performers to find a different level, to push their own boundaries to ensure that the work glistens as it might. It can create a sense of shared ecstasy between performers and audience which can never be broken, never be diminished. Or it can disappoint, turn audiences away through that disappointment, possibly never to return to the theatre again.
Rarely, very rarely indeed, does every element of a production come perfectly into unison with every other element, to produce a work that is flawless, indescribably beautiful, and which shines with the brilliance of a galaxy, never mind a few stars. Where everyone is not just perfectly cast, but where everyone could not be better cast. Where everyone works together for the benefit of the entire production and not just to get to the points where they, individually or in smaller groups, get to have a moment in the Sun. Where every joke lands, every tear is made to cascade down one’s cheek, every unexpected moment of joy or pain hits its target unerringly, and where pleasure rolls over you, constantly, inexorably, as though you were a child’s sandcastle and the tide was coming to overwhelm you.
Now playing at the Bernard B. Jacobs theatre on Broadway is just such a rarity: John Doyle’s exquisite, augmented revival of The Color Purple first presented at the Menier Chocolate Factory in 2013. With utterly superb Musical Direction from Catherine Jayes and Jason Michael Webb, which ensures that every note, rhythm and melody is given full, glorious and full-throttle value, this is an astonishing night in the theatre.
Superior, in every way, to the hugely successful and critically acclaimed premiere Broadway production, Doyle’s version is exemplary in every way: brutal, raw, tragic, funny, delicate, exotic, intense and fertilised with heart, humanity and love. Unsentimental, yet almost fairy-tale like in its ineffable sense of truth, The Color Purple is Musical Theatre at its most magnificent.
Based on Alice Walker’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel of the same name, Marsha Norman’s book here tells the tale with startling efficiency and comprehensive dignity. Lyrics and music (Brenda Russell, Allee Willis and Stephen Bray) have a gorgeous homespun feeling in parts, resonate Africa in others, revel in the possibilities the text provides for Gospel or Tribal traditional music when appropriate, and don’t shy away from a top line diva belt/vocal fireworks number when the occasion demands it. But, with book book and lyrics, as well as the score, not a word or a note is wasted, inappropriate or misjudged. Gregory Clarke’s sound design is masterful.
Jan Cox provides a lighting design which is deceptively simple, but magnificently effective. Doyle’s own set design provides for a plain playing space with levels and a back drop, which extends as high as an elephant’s eye, and which is composed of fragments of wooden shacks onto which many single wooden chairs, some broken, some well worn, some plain, some slightly more fancy, have been affixed. The wooden frame backdrop is in sections, with movement permitted between them when desirable. The sense of poor, mistreated ordinariness is palpable.
Cox ensures that, at all times, the focus is properly drawn to the central point of a given scene; levels of light can create space - a prison cell, an African mission, a moment of blissful intimacy. A scene where Celie is reading letters is luminous in every way, in large part because of Cox’s lighting.
The costumes from Ann Hould-Wood are tremendous and beguiling. They radiate the heat of the location as well as provide a colour chart of simple identification. All the primary colours are represented, and white and colours such as brown, fawn, grey and beige play their own role. Nothing, as far as could be detected, was purple - and rightly so. There is a wonderful moment where colourful sheets/bedspreads instantly regenerate into African tribal dress. Everyone looks perfect all the time. It is simply terrific work.
The story is a bleak one, but despite its very low lows, it has many highs. By playing the story straight, not seeking sympathy or sentimental overload, Doyle plays a blinder and ensures that the power of the narrative is undiluted and volcanic. There is racism, sexual exploitation and gender politics at the core of this tale of two sisters, Celie and Nettie, the tragedy which separates them, the horrors that compound upon Celie, and the strength of character which, finally, sees them reunited.
Along the way, their lives are entwined with two other remarkable women: Shug Avery and Sofia. Shug is a glamorous singer with a penchant for foolish men, a fine line in put downs and a deep, abiding love of Celie. Sofia is a strong and proud woman who will not be cowed by cowardly white thugs, even when they unconscionably blind and bruise her.
There are men too, but this quartet of formidable female characters provide the meaty heart of The Color Purple. Mister is the powerful bully of the piece, who brings unending pain to Celie but who, through her example, is redeemed. Harpo is the tall, gangly, slightly foolish, but absolutely sincere and loving, husband of Sofia. Both men provide stark contrasts to the rippling, pure sensibilities of the women and need to function exactly right if the story is to attain its truest, most potent power.
Which, on any view of it, this production surely does. This is the finest, most beautifully crafted piece of musical theatre I have ever seen on a Broadway stage. Period. One cannot imagine a single second which could be improved. To quote Sondheim, “If the woman were perfection” she would be this production of The Color Purple.
Patrons are, rightly, drawn to the production by the presence of Jennifer Hudson and Danielle Brooks, both big non-Broadway stars in their own right. In this case, star casting has been in perfect alignment with the requirements of the production.
Hudson is vibrant, sultry and supremely sexy as the arch, diffident Shug. Her height accentuates her oddness, her uniqueness and her off-hand, matter of fact delivery merely adds to her lustrous charm. Her wigs (Charles G. LaPointe) are superb, and she has the sensual chanteuse look down to perfection, in voice, manner, bearing and appearance. Her initial assessment of Celie as ugly gives way, slowly over time, to a proper assessment of her worth. Hudson charts the transformation with consummate ease and Too Beautiful For Words is, well, too beautiful for words.
For her part, Brooks is sensational. She is the personification of determined and brash, fiery and loving - she makes Sofia an unforgettable character. She handles the difficult scene where she is beaten into blindness superbly, and without make-up or other accoutrements, projects clearly the devastation wrought on this wronged woman. Hell No! is quite extraordinary, fun and serious at once. Later, Any Little Thing, a duet with Kyle Scatcliffe’s sweet Harpo, is as delicious and radiant as a rainbow. Her Sofia is direct and brilliantly comic, as well as utterly human, completely real. A triumph.
From the very first number, Huckleberry Pie, to African Homeland and the sequence where Nettie returns to Celie’s world, Joaquina Kalukkango never puts a foot wrong. She is totally believable as Celie’s sister and the warmth and perseverance she invests into the character is glorious and humbling. She has a sweet, true voice which is a joy to hear, and a clarity of purpose which is admirable and remarkable.
As Mister, Isaiah Johnson is a buttoned up bombastic villain to start with, and quite excellent in that mode. He is sexy, which adds a dangerous edge to the horrors he inflicts. Johnson knows how to smoulder as well as burn, and manages both precisely as Mister requires. His brutality is not so obscene as to be irredeemable, but it is sufficiently appalling to make Celie’s Act Two “let’s try for friends” both impossibly forgiving and brightly humorous.
He does not make the mistake of being a cardboard villain, and you can see the struggle in him as he wrestles with what he thinks being a man involves and the repercussions of his own actions. The revelation about his part in Celie’s reunification with her children is profoundly touching - entirely because of the difficult work Johnson has done in preparation for it.
Scatliffe’s Harpo is wonderful - all goggly eyes, flapping limbs and earnest heart. He is the perfect foil for Brooks’ Sofia and revels in the opportunities, none of which are missed. In the ensemble, there is especially remarkable work, and vocal glory, from Carrie Compere, Rema Webb, Patrice Covington and Bre Jackson. Carla R. Stewart and Grasan Kingsberry are quite heart-breaking as Olivia and Adam, Celie’s stolen children.
But…
The Color Purple would be nothing without an extraordinary Celie at its heart, and in the astounding Cynthia Erivo, John Doyle has struck gold. She is perfection as Celie, her performance having grown, matured, blossomed since the Menier Chocolate Factory outing in 2013.
Engrave the Tony Award for her now. It is that simple.
Erivo, consummately and without any signs of fatigue or any sense that every word, step and thought is anything but completely fresh, utterly original, responsively spontaneous, is magnetic and irresistible as Celie. She sings like a lark, prettily and with zest and joire de vivre, but also like a tigress, growling, pained and with a mighty roar. Her eleven o’clock number, I’m Here, stopped the show, rightly; it’s a powerhouse, bravura vocal achievement of which few are capable. To listen to her sing here is to understand the full magic of nature.
Her voice is linked imperceptibly and incomparably to her performance, to the character of Celie. Erivo uses the music to define and delineate the role; her musicianship is impeccable. In Somebody Gonna Love You and Any Little Thing, Erivo shows her range - and it is formidable indeed. In short, she is both astonishing and inspiring - one of the greatest performances Broadway has ever witnessed.
No slouch with dialogue either, Erivo is adept at a smart put-down, can finely judge comic timing, and uses her speaking voice as a part of her armoury as much as her singing voice. She is equal to every dramatic challenge here and really exceeds expectations on all levels. You cannot but fall under her spell - Erivo is a proper Broadway Star doing exemplary work in every department.
Seeing her in The Color Purple, so early in her career, one cannot help but hope that one will live long enough to see her do Rose in Gypsy. Erivo is capable of transforming expectations about repertoire - let’s hope she gets her chance to do just that.
Sell body parts or your offspring to see this remarkable production on Broadway. It is the perfect storm of radiant talent - in every department.
It’s important theatre too. At a time when the USA Senate is trying to castigate the country’s President simply because of the colour of his skin, the messages in The Color Purple as a relevant and urgent as ever.
Unmissable in absolutely every way. A once in a generation experience on Broadway.
Six stars