04/30/96

Two months, one Pulitzer Prize and acres of magazine and newspaper pages later, the waiflike hopes of the American musical are living in fancier digs. Uprooted by a cyclone of critical ecstasy and a hunger for theatrical novelty, they have posed for fashion layouts, inspired a Bloomingdale’s ad campaign and will record their songs about life on the edge for David Geffen’s Dreamworks label. They even have a producer who is comparing their spirit

"Rent," Jonathan Larson’s luminous, youthful musical that started off at the tiny New York Theater Workshop on East Fourth Street in February, opened on Broadway last night at the Nederlander Theater, after previews that drew such paparazzis’ dreams as Billy Joel, David Bowie and Ralph Fiennes. And, no, Toto, I don’t think we’re in the East Village anymore. Everyone can breathe one quick sigh of relief, however, before lamenting the way of all flash. Anyone who loved "Rent" in its first incarnation is not going to feel like the victim of a Champagne hangover who wakes up next to a creepy stranger. The vibrant 15 cast members are actually even better, as if they had found fresh reserves of energy in the glow of mainstream starlight. And the ingenuity and dexterity of Mr. Larson’s rock-pop score, translated with loving skill by Tim Weill’s onstage band, are, in fact, more evident now.

Indeed, great care has obviously been taken to keep this charming, poignant rock opera much as it looked when it was seen by Mr. Larson, who died of an aortic aneurysm at the age of 35 on the night of its last dress rehearsal downtown. And therein lies the one, conspicuous problem of the transplanted "Rent." The show remains a sentimental triumph, and it will doubtless have, and deserves, a long and healthy run. But in the haste to take this contemporary answer to Puccini’s "Boheme" to Broadway, no oneseems to have thought rationally about reconceiving the show for a larger house (and we’re talking about 1,173 seats versus the 150 of the Theater Workshop). Unlike "Bring In da Noise, Bring In da Funk," which recently moved from the Joseph Papp Public Theater to the Ambassador on Broadway, this "Rent" verges on being lost in space. Thank heavens for its top-flight cast, which does indeed pump the theater full of emotional adrenaline. But the actors work harder than they should have to. And even at Saturday night’s preview, some of their voices were already edged in raggedness, despite the continued use of head mikes. The philosophy behind the transfer, overseen by the show’s director, Michael Greif, seems to have been to create the illusion that "Rent" never really moved at all. Paul Clay’s original grungy, deliberately makeshift-looking set, with its white paper lantern of a moon, has simply been scaled up, as if by a Xerox enlarger. The back brick wall of the stage is visible here, too, and the cast still wanders casually into place before the houselights go down, as if to remind us that these are real, funky people up there. Furthermore, the Nederlander, a theater that has long been dark, has been decorated with all manner of downtown accouterments: its exterior has hand-painted urban murals, and inside there is fake leopard carpeting and the sort of crockery mosaics that can be found on the bases of lamp posts on St. Mark’s Place. But let’s not kid ourselves. This is the stuff of theater-as-theme park, and the Nederlander has become East Village Land, much in the way that the Eugene O’Neill Theater, where the revival of "Grease" is running, is 1950’s Land. And the top ticket price for "Rent" is a whopping $67.50, a figure that would feed most of its cast in an Avenue B restaurant. This, however, is simply the unfortunate economic reality of Broadway today. The problem iswhat’s happening onstage, which is almost move for move what it was downtown. Mr. Greif’s direction was always a tad wooden, often merely configuring the ensemble like performers in a staged concert. This was less noticeable in a small space: those performers had such intense presences, and they were so close, that they seemed almost to be embracing you. The eye must travel much further from the orchestra (let alone the balcony) to the stage now. And it needs more to divert it than is being offered. Mr. Larson had spoken in interviews about creating theater for the MTV generation. But MTV videos make lip-synching seem kinetic with changing camera angles, close-ups and cross-cutting; they become the equivalent of choreography and strategic stage lighting, which "Rent" could definitely use more of. Mr. Larson’s music has an infectious pulse that begs to be danced to. And Marlies Yearby, the show’s choreographer, brings such wit and verve to the first-act finale (the banquet number, "La Vie Boheme") that you feel frustrated that it’s the only thing approaching an ensemble dance number. That "Rent" still qualifies as a major success, and it does, is almost entirely because of Mr. Larson’s clever but deeply felt words and score and the cast and musicians who interpret them. What makes "Rent" so wonderful is not its hipness quotient, but its extraordinary spirit of hopeful defiance and humanity. Mr. Larson has conceived his show’s surrogate family of fringe artists, drag queens and H.I.V.-infected drug users with such rich affection and compassion that it is impossible not to care about them. "Rent" is ultimately as sentimental as "Carousel" or "South Pacific," and the splendid cast members make no apologies about this. They’re as gritty-seeming as they should be, but they also beam with the good will and against-the-odds optimism that is at the heart of the American musical. Adam Pascal as Roger, the H.I.V.-positive songwriter, has an enhanced, effortless-seeming radiance that should quickly turn him into a matinee idol for a new generation. His shimmering sensuality is ideally complemented by the more shadowy eroticism of Daphne Rubin-Vega, whose Mimi gives off a transfixing blend of street swagger and mortal fragility. The couple’s moonlit duet, "Light My Candle," and the recurring "I Should Tell You" remain the show’s romantic centerpieces. Anthony Rapp’s Mark, the self-styled experimental auteur at war with his own defensive detachment, seems to be pushing a bit hard these days, but he is still the production’s energetic engine. Wilson Jermaine Hereida’s angelic transvestite, Jesse L. Martin’s renegade philosopher and Fredi Walker’s lesbian lawyer emerge as fully defined characters you feel you’ve known all your life. And Idina Menzel, as the performance artist Maureen, brings new, welcome satiric shadings to her character’s artistic affectations. The second act still feels more awkward than the first (and includes some unfortunate lyrics like, "You’re living in America; leave your conscience at the tone"). But there’s no denying that Mr. Larson discovered a winningly accessible and ground-breaking musical formula that combines rock’s drive, pop’s memory-grabbing melodiousness and the leitmotifs and harmonic counterpoints of opera. And when the whole ensemble sings of making the most of limited time in "Seasons of Love," the heart still melts and the eyes still mist. At one point, when Mr. Rapp’s Mark, who worries about prostituting his talent after taking a job with a tabloid television show, asks, "How did I get here?" he might be speaking for the entire "Rent" team. The answer, above all, is an original talent and a flame of youth that the mummified world of Broadway musicals so needs. Even without a fully developed support system, that talent continues to blaze at the Nederlander.