S Poddar
It is a marvelous performance by Mary Bridget Davies in the role of Janis Joplin at the Peacock Theatre. But even after this great performance, the show fails to impress in terms of an interesting and consolidated piece. Davies is channeling-not just mimicking-Joplin, the great blues-rock singer whose performances were such raw, intense experiences, they were almost cathartic. Joplin, known for her self-destructive lifestyle and raw vocals, passed away at the tender age of 27 in 1970. Through Davies, one feels that Joplin rises from the dead as she walks onto the stage.
Davies breathes fire and dedication into the most popular numbers that Joplin had toured with, such as “Piece of My Heart,” “Cry Baby,” and “Stay With Me,” at an energy level identical to the original performances. The audience is mesmerized by the talented actress and her talented support in music and vocals, and her wild unkempt hair and bizarre clothes stringing the realness of her as Joplin. While Davies can never be like Joplin-a singer/actress born in 1978 is nearly two decades older than the woman she idolizes. The physicality of her performance, from Joplin’s trademark dance moves to her bittersweet, defiant expression, is just right.
But the show falls apart whenever it tries to string these musical moments into a narrative. The songs are roughly strung together with a folksy, meandering narration that attempts to recount Joplin’s life. This is interspersed with appearances by the blues and soul icons that inspired Joplin-acts like Russel Franklin, Etta James, and Bessie Smith. But these big vixens don’t perform their well-known songs, which feels like a missed opportunity-perhaps due to the cost of securing rights to the music.
Randy Johnson having written and directed, apparently has managed something more akin to a tribute concert than he has a cohesive musical, and glaringly you get to see the painful seams of this “Frankenshow,” so disjointed and awkward. That Davies herself has chosen the entertainment-unfriendly Peacock Theatre does not help for here the very thing that best serves Davies in her concerts – the sense of proximity and shared intimacy – is sorely amiss. Despite her ripe attempts to get them into it and draw an ovation on opening night, the venue works against her.
A similar point can be made about the set design: deadpan in its minimalism, it features platforms, a gantry and central screen on which random 60s-style graphics, images of thunderstorms, baby photos of Joplin and her early artwork are projected. The singing voices-are, undoubtedly stellar but the thread of narrative is tenuous and too slender to bear up the show. Even the most avid Joplin fan may tune out halfway through.
The greatest weakness of the show is in its inability to delve deeper into the facets of Joplin’s life. What exactly is it that drove this “middle-class white chick” to live so recklessly in pursuit of music and thrills? All one gets are some rather superficial anecdotes on her family and vague musings that have to do with the blues. And that is a hole that even Davies’ remarkable performance doesn’t quite fill.
It’s clear that capturing Joplin’s force of will and her vocal tsunami is a Herculean assignment. Davies, who has been playing Joplin in one iteration or another for more than a decade – and playing the role since 2011 in this production alone – has garnered a Tony nomination for her current engagement on Broadway. Sharon Sexton is being tapped for the London run in the matinee performances, recognized most likely for the fact that playing Janis no doubt allows for few afternoons off. It’s likely that those breaks now are filled with far healthier substances—think honey and lemon, or saltwater gargles—than Joplin herself might have chosen.
But in terms of how that gives the lead actress a break, there are better ways of accomplishing the same thing. Instead of bringing in some skilled singer in an unflattering costume to hammer the audience with some obscure Aretha Franklin B-side, it might have been done in a more evocative manner. Recent West End productions over icons such as Tina Turner and Bob Marley have proven compilation musicals can be deeper, richer works than vacuous or insubstantial. Unfortunately, this one is not. While Davies perfectly captures Joplin in sound and physicality, the whole effect is devoid of much substance or pleasure.
