The “musical biography” is the most dopily reliable theatrical form ever invented. All you need is a driven genius misunderstood by the forces of reaction, and happily there are thousands to go round. Doesn’t really matter who you pick: Elvis, Buddy Holly, Mozart, Patsy Cline, Laurence Welk. It helps if they died young, but they’d have a hard time expiring as prematurely as the drama always does. There’s invariably a scene where the misunderstood genius confronts a squaresville music-biz exec who doesn’t get it and defiantly tells him, “I gotta play ma music ma way.” Then he does. Producers love these shows: they come with a catalogue of big hits and a write-by-numbers script that does its best to stay out of the way. You can sing along to the songs and the dialogue.
Yet even those of us with a lifelong antipathy to John Lennon would have to concede he’s an unlikely candidate for the theatrical equivalent of a $2.99 Wal-Mart lifetime-achievement diploma. For long stretches of Lennon, at the Broadhurst Theatre, one feels vaguely one must be watching an elaborate theatrical spoof spilled over from Spamalot next door. If you were running late and had ten minutes to knock off a treatment for a Lennon biotuner in the cab en route to the producer’s office, how would you end the show?
Got it! A full-company rendition of “Imagine.”
Great, now that problem’s solved, how about the First Act finale?
Got it! A
