Damn Yankees

WHEN I was young and lived in the suburbs, life was very simple. Take me to a Washington Senators game or put on the record of some Broadway musical, and you were my friend for life. It is no wonder that my parents became my friends for life when they took me see Damn Yankees, not only the first musical I had ever seen in the flesh, but one about the Senators winning the pennant to boot.

That was well over ten years ago, and now things aren't so simple. The Senators (with or without Ted Williams) no longer mean too much to me; friends are harder to come by; and, as I learned at Agassiz this week, Damn Yankees is not necessarily a form of instant ecstasy.

Still, musicals--even those have aged poorly, as Yankees has--can provide a lot of theatrical lightning. All they need to work is plenty of love, speed and style. In the Agassiz Yankees, the love and speed are there; it's the lack of style that often sends this enormously pleasant show into the doldrums.

While director George Birnbaum keeps the production moving, he seems not to have realized that sheer pace is no substitute for electricity. The scenes seem hurriedly blocked rather than directed. We get little feeling of the baseball world (a situation not helped by the colorless sets and costumes) and the wild-eyed people who populate it. Without this essential atmosphere, the production loses the nutty chaos that should make it tick. Birnbaum's own brand of ingenuity seems to lie with the quick double-entendre gag-vulgarity that goes against the grain of this particular musical. Just about everything the director does points at, rather than ignores, the show's leanly plotted and generally unfunny George's Abbott-Douglas Wallop book.

Luckily, there are the snazzy Richard Adler-Jerry Ross songs. It is with these that Yankees connects often enough to made much of the evening throb with that special kind of joy peculiar to the musical theatre.

Much of this kind of joy derives from the work of choreographer Ron Porter, who sends his dancers through whirlwinds of frenetic steps, jump and whoops. His "Heart" number is a show stopper, as the baseball players scamper all over the place under the robust leadership of Bob Bush, the salty team manager.

At the center of most of the other dance numbers is Shannon Thompson, a girl who can't help but ignite you spinal chord. Miss Thompson is, quite simply, the best musical comedienne Cambridge could ever hope to have. From the first time I saw her (as a stripper in Gypsy, looking something like an eight-foot tall slutty butterfly), I knew this girl could do no wrong. As Lola, the sexiest witch of all time, she grabs more laughs than anyone (including no doubt the authors), ever knew existed in the role. Even here dancing has a certain humorous, self-mocking quality to it.

Most of the rest of the cast works hard and well, too, although no one can ever quite overcome the lethargy of the non-musical scenes. David Dunton's sharp and funny portrayal of the devil, Applegate, bristles with cunning and sleek nastiness. While Don Meader's version of Joe Hardy, super baseball star, is essentially unappealing (why does he always scowl?), his singing voice has extraordinary power and expression.

But for all its talented individuals and springy dances, Agassiz' Damn Yankees can never throw off the burden of a book in which things happen so dully and a director who does so little to slick it all up. Go to Agassiz expecting spasmodic thrills, but plan to find you ecstasy after the show is over.