Abby Normal

You see to the right the cast album of Mel Brooks' new musical, "Young Frankenstein."

I'm not going to buy it.

After my foray into the Hilton Theater (note to Broadway: theaters should be named after playwrights, lyricists, or composers, not hotel chains or blonde bimbos) Wednesday night to see the show, I saw a lot of these CDs piled up at the theater gift shop. Nobody else was buying them either.

Sure, I had read the lousy reviews beforehand. I figured that some of that bad buzz might be attributed to Broadway snootiness driven by the ultra-high top ticket price, which is the equivalent of your first mortgage payment for a 700 square foot Manhattan condo. And I knew 'Young Frankenstein" was going to be nowhere close to being as excitingly clever as "The Producers." But, at the same time, it had to be better than "Xanadu." Or that stupid "Grease" revival which features lead actors that were cast by having some schmucks in Iowa call NBC's toll-free number. And, at the very, very least, I was hoping for a pleasant evening of theatrical diversion, albeit at the tough-to-swallow price of $ 120.

Wrong, wrong, and now a little poorer.

What made "The Producers" so startingly good is that there was an element of discovery for the theater goer. I saw the original production when it first opened in NY with Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick. I later saw the LA production that was even better, thanks to more tempered and focused performances from Jason Alexander and the always delectable Martin Short. The first time I saw the production number with the old ladies tapdancing around with walkers, I marveled at the creativity. I did the same with the "Springtime for Hitler" moment which wonderfully expanded upon the way it was presented in the original film. There was none of that when I saw "Young Frankenstein."

To say that Mel Brooks' latest musical is no "Producers" is an understatement. It's not even close to the canned Radio City Music Hall Christmas Show in terms of entertainment return on investment. Sure, the pyrotechnics are spectacular, especially in the scene where the good Doctor Frankenstein gives life to his monster. And the sets are marvelous. But, sets can't sing. Or dance. Or act. Nobody left the Hilton Theater humming the Transylvania town square.

"Young Frankenstein" is probably my favorite Mel Brooks movie and other fans will be happy to know that all the most memorable jokes are transferred intact to the stage. Where wolf, there wolf. The mention of Frau Blucher causing horses to whinny (by the way, Blucher is German for glue, in case nobody really thought about that joke previously). What hump? Etc., etc., etc.. It's all there in person. But, still, the life has been drained out of the dialogue just as if the show went through the same brain transferrence that the monster does. It's an open bottle of club soda one month later.

Whereas the Susan Strohman choregraphy in "The Producers" was inspired, there is nothing nearly as inventive in "Young Frankenstein." Most of the numbers look like dancing you would see in the 10PM show on the Queen Mary.

The acting is equally as lacking. Roger Bart is totally miscast as the lead. He works okay in musical numbers, but he kept changing his voice while doing dialogue. I thought I was watching Fred Travalena at Harrah's. There was a grating quality to his performance that completely undercut any likeability you are supposed to develop for his character. Sutton Foster, who usually plays the thankless role of Inga, didn't even bother to show up on Wednesday night, and perhaps she was the smartest one in the bunch as she apparently settled in at home to watch the latest American Idol auditions. Megan Mullaly, the biggest "star" in the show, plays the Madeline Kahn role of the fiancee and, except for five minutes early on, she could literally spend the entire first act having a ribeye steak at Gallagher's. Unfortunately, Megan is still demonstrating some of those nasty acting tics she developed after years of working with super-hack James Burrows' non-direction on "Will and Grace." Here, she once again delivers some lines with her breasts, and that's fitting given that her two biggest numbers contain nothing but anatomical references. The ballad she sings after getting poked by the monster is called "Deep Love" and, trust me, it has nothing to do with the most inner depths of the emotion. The guy playing the monster was serviceable, but, even after reading the Playbill, I still can't remember his name. And Christopher Fitzgerald as Igor/Eyegor did echo the portrayal of Marty Feldman, albeit with some corrective eye surgery.

At the act break, I realized that the past hour and fifteen minutes had flown by like two weeks and that I could not remember a single musical note from the absolutely dreadful music. I loathed the beginning of the second act the way I fear a doctor wearing a plastic glove. But, just as I was going to officially put my John Hancock on the death certificate, out comes the famous "Puttin' On the Ritz" number, which finally applied the electric paddles to an otherwise stillborn evening. This song is terrifically expanded on the stage, and there was finally music and lyrics to savor, which made sense because it's the only song in the show that was outsourced, having been essayed by Irving Berlin some eighty years ago.

The only other thing that was able to raise my chin off my chest was the performance of Andrea Martin as Frau Blucher. Admittedly, I would pay good money to watch this amazing talent open a can of Chunky Soup. Everytime she walked onto the stage, she was as welcome as your next pay check. And the role is greatly fleshed out on the stage, and probably has been increased even more since rehearsals when they realized the magic wand she waves over this whole production. For my money, they could keep giving her more to do every night until it's essentially a one woman show.

So, do the math. One superlative performance and one good production number. Worth $120? Probably not. Worth 60? Maybe. And, since I know scalpers were outside the theater selling tickets for half price, that might be your best ticket to Transylvania. But, hurry. There were empty seats in the back and that wasn't the case for "The Producers" the first two years of its Broadway run.

By the way, no such Broadway excursion would be complete without another observation of the increasingly slippery slope of the NY theater going audience, which is now one rung above frequent diners at the Olive Garden. The Hilton Theater is one of those old vaudeville houses on 42nd Street and it has been lovingly restored, given that one of its theater neighbors has been converted to a McDonalds, complete with a glittery marquee. But, there's a huge gift shop in the lobby that resembles the store you walk through after getting off the Tower of Terror ride at California Adventure. I was expecting to see a wall where I could buy a picture of me sitting in Row P, not enjoying the show. And it's the first time I've ever seen an ATM in a legitimate theater lobby, similar to one you would see stationed outside of J.C. Penney's in the local mall.

As for the folks around me, it's more of the same. People bringing pretzels, Raisinets, and cocktails back to their seats. And there's a new phenomenon. Just like those numbskulls that rush out of a movie theater when the closing credits start, a whole host of idiots now run out of Broadway theaters before the curtain calls. I look at them all and know that none of them could possibly have anyplace important to be. Those that stay provide the requisite standing ovation, which is now rendered as completely meaningless on the Broadway stage since now every single performance of anything gets one.

Even though I did not like "Young Frankenstein," I stayed for the curtain call. And applauded. And cheered when Andrea Martin took her bow.

And really wished I had liked it more. During the final number, the cast sings about the possibility of Mel's next possible musical production, an adaptation of "Blazing Saddles."

I might just stick to watch the DVD, which I got for $14.95.

Dinner last night: Antipasto salad.