In this peculiarly charged political season, what may have been innocuous platitudes can become unintended rallying calls. When the emcee in Cabaret tossed off the line "Live and let live," a substantial segment of the audience thought it worthy of supportive cheers since recent events show the alternative has been gaining ground. Then comes the switcheroo. The song "If You Could See Her" is suddenly revealed to be a virulently anti-Semitic burlesque, with the earlier suggested tolerance only a mockery of it. A small gasp arose, this time, rather than the cheers.
When Cabaret originally opened on Broadway in 1966, anxieties about the Vietnam War abroad and dope-smoking hippies at home were hovering. And when the more ragged and raunchier revival brought the musical back to Broadway in 1998, the relative peace and prosperity of the Clinton years found whatever needed anxiety in a stained blue dress. But by the time that revival returned to Broadway in 2014, all manner of shit had hit the fan, yet it's still hard to imagine that "live and let live" would have been an applause line. The rhetorical aroma of the current presidential contest has wafted its way into Cabaret, which takes place at the rise of the nativist Nazis who want to rid themselves of unclean outsiders. And we know similar sentiments not only arise here, but helped push "Brexit" over the top.
That's a heady preface to a review of Cabaret, which once seemed to depict a history so horrible that no one could imagine it could repeat itself. But that is a weight that now tugs the story into our contemporary lives, even if the production carrying it is more efficient than inspired. The reworked Cabaret first passed through SF in 1999, and the recent recreation of that revival has spun off another tour now at the Golden Gate Theatre.
It's a reasonable manifestation that dutifully delivers the goods that director Sam Mendes and choreographer Rob Marshall gathered for the Roundabout Theatre Company revival. But what's missing here are the kind of nuances that should be further winding up tensions. It's a magical Berlin that sparkles in the eyes of a newly arrived American novelist, and while his illusions are gradually stripped away, we don't get to go on the journey with him, for we have no illusions after the first scene at the Kit Kat Klub.
The newly arrived American is told that the Kit Kat Klub is the place to be, but when the emcee introduces the cabaret girls, a desultory line of haggard, out-of-shape women rousing themselves one more time to go through the ragged dance steps, we don't even briefly get to share in the American's illusions. Clifford Bradshaw's impressions are based on Christopher Isherwood's own, as recorded in The Berlin Stories and massaged into a musical libretto by Joe Masteroff.
The Kit Kat Klub does have its wisp of class, a singer billed as the "toast of Mayfair," but she is a woman whose crust has been frequently burned. Sally Bowles, with an English accent of indeterminate provenance, owes her employment to a boss-with-benefits arrangement that goes south. While Sally has gleaned that Cliff's tipple is both men and women, she moves in on this easy mark when she finds herself homeless. The illusion of happy homemakers can only be sustained for so long.
One of Mendes' smart moves was bridging the awkward splits between the in-their-own-world cabaret scenes with the more conventional storytelling outside the club. The emcee has become something of a figure who floats through the scene changes and watches over the book scenes as an all-knowing presence.
The show's original creators created a dilemma for themselves with the cabaret scenes featuring Sally Bowles. It makes no sense for her to be a singer of such talent that the only way to get a job is to sleep with the boss, but that voice must be good enough that the actual audiences can enjoy themselves. Andrea Goss with her Betty Boop eyes reasonably manages the tightrope, and her delivery of the title song near the end is devastating in its rejection of the song's message.
As the emcee, Randy Harrison steps into a role so definitively play by Joel Grey and Alan Cumming, and he offers an amiable performance in its own right. But even 12 years after Queer as Folk left the air, his persona from the series �" he was tellingly nicknamed Sunshine �" is still part of who he is on stage. Despite some rude staged bits, he comes across as an understudy not quite ready for the role but happy to be there. There are decent performances from Shannon Cochran as a Mother Courage-type landlady, Mark Nelson as her timid, late-in-life beau, and Alison Ewing as a tenant who always knows when the fleet is in town. Lee Aaron Rosen provides nice shading to the role of Cliff, whose presence is often more as observer than participant.
The arrival of Cabaret at this point in news cycles has a gravitas that ramps up its relevance, but that is not enough when the vehicle carrying that resonance looks in need of a tuneup, as this one unfortunately does.
Cabaret will run through July 17 at the Golden Gate Theatre. Tickets are $50-$212. Call (888) 746-1799 or go to shnsf.com.