By Alex Rendon
By Monica McGivern
By Michele Eve Sandberg
By Alex Rendon
By Monica McGivern
By Ian Witlen
By Christina Mendenhall
By Michele Eve Sandberg
For a current example of comedy's potential for sheer chaos, look no further than the Caldwell Theatre in Boca Raton, where a master provocateur, Avi Hoffman, is holding mock court with Songs of Paradise: A "Newish" Musical, a funny, tongue-in-cheek musical romp through the ancient stories of the Torah. The show features some splendid triple-threat performers, a bouncy musical score, and outstanding design elements. This comedy careens along with such dazzle, it's like an errant skyrocket: entertaining but also more than a little dangerous. The show celebrates Jewish culture but also manages to slip in more than a few cultural critiques, some intentional, others perhaps not. In other words, there's some very serious stuff in between all the shtick.
Shtick, that old Yiddish word, is the operant term here. Hoffman, who directs and stars, has adapted and translated Songs from its original incarnation as a Yiddish-language production, which was produced in New York in 1989 by the late Joseph Papp. That show, in turn, had its origins in the works of the early 20th-century poet/playwright Itzik Manger, whose broadly comic renditions of traditional Jewish stories used jokey contemporary references -- a style that is itself taken directly from the 16th-century Purim-shpiels, similar folk renditions of traditional Biblical tales. This form of comedy has long been regarded with more than a little mistrust by religious authorities but has remained a popular tradition nevertheless.
Hoffman's current show features a blizzard of in-jokes and contemporary references. Hoffman plays Adam as a sun-worshipping tourist, replete with suntan reflector, clashing beachwear, and flip-flops, while Eve (Margery Lowe) is a shopaholic (upon her creation, her first line is, "Where's the mall?"). The snake in the Garden of Eden is a funky, sexy beast. Actually, this is a double role: Jason Field plays the Tree of Knowledge with green Afro hair for leaves, while with one arm he's also playing the Snake. Hoffman's Abraham is a Barcalounging nebbish who turns to meditation for relaxation (his mantra: "Oyyyyyyyyyyy") while Elizabeth Dimon, who returns to the Caldwell after her stint in Out of Season, plays Abe's wife, Sarah, as a long-suffering kvetcher. Hoffman plays Abel as an adult-size baby replete with an enormous baby bottle and pacifier, while his Potifar is a drag act.
In each character, Hoffman dominates the stage, a Hebrew Benny Hill, totally at ease with his audience. In one especially silly sketch, Hoffman plays the tricky Jacob, duping an inheritance from his dumb-as-a-post brother Esau, whom Field plays as an amalgam of Marlon Brando and Robert de Niro (in a flurry of jokes, this Esau references The Godfather, On the Waterfront, A Streetcar Named Desire, The Wild Ones, and Taxi Driver -- and those are just the ones I caught).
All of this makes for some good-natured, harmless silliness. But though Hoffman's approach is innocuous, he's perceptive enough to respect the material he's working with. These tales are ripe for parody and satire, but at their root, they reveal a number of conflicting aspects of human nature, no matter how funny they may first appear. Cain's murder of Abel is played as a childish, impulsive act, but the subsequent musical number is about Cain's deep regret. In the show's most electrifying sequence, Sarah orders Abraham to get rid of his longtime mistress, the seductive slave Hagar (Lisa Neubauer in a very effective performance) and her bastard son Ishmael. Abraham is entranced by lithe Hagar's wild, sensuous dancing and balks. But caught between duty and desire, he sticks by his lawful wife and her son Isaac, banishing the heartbroken Hagar. The show focuses on Abraham's indecision and his awareness that he has failed to acknowledge his own son in Ishmael and that Hagar's children are destined to be the forebears of the Arab people ("From your seed comes the word of the Koran"). In the subsequent duet, Sarah sings a lullaby to her little baby while Hagar tearfully laments her own baby's unjust fate. That Abraham, the father of the Jewish faith, was also the patriarch of Islam is a Biblical irony that makes this sequence suddenly, vitally contemporary -- precisely the point of the Purim-shpielers, long, long ago.
Such obvious moments are rare in Songs, but they are there by implication everywhere: unsettling, dark reminders of ancient conflicts that remain unresolved. In addition, the show adds an array of other, perplexing, symbolic touches. The snake/tree is clearly portrayed as African-American. From such clues as the Afro hair, the bluesy music, and the snake's funky accent, this conclusion is hard to avoid. This dual character raps and breakdances, and his power is clearly sexual (Eve compliments him on his well-hung apples). References to black culture abound in the show, especially musically -- with everything from doo-wop to gospel given prominence. Some of this just flies by without comment, giving rise to the possibility that a lot of the show's iconography is inadvertent: In an Egyptian scene, Tim Bennett's set features four pillars shaped like the Pharaoh, except the faces are black-and-white photos of what appear to be mug shots (Bennett claims they are all photos of Hoffman). Or how about the Camel-cigarette logo that appears in Thomas Salzman's lighting? And why is Jacob costumed in full Germanic lederhosen? No reason -- probably.