Curtain Call: Everything Comes Together in Brilliant An American in Paris

       From the pre-show chatter around me, it was clear I was far from the only audience member not to be familiar with Vincent Minelli’s An American in Paris, the 1951 Best Picture winner that obviously bore some relation to what we were about to see. Beyond being able to identify the opening strains of George Gershwin’s orchestral piece (also of the same name), I was completely in the dark. Did Gershwin write it for the musical? Did the film come later? No idea.

If you are equally ignorant of the subject at hand, I recommend you stop reading this immediately and buy a ticket to this show (right now — go!), because there is no bliss quite like being taken completely unawares by great art — which is what Musical Theatre West is bringing us here on absolutely every level. 

But if you insist on more info…

I hardly know where to begin, because part of the brilliance of An American in Paris (this production, at least, since I’ve got no other reference point) is that literally every element — plot and acting, music and dance, lighting, costumes, sets — perfectly complements all the others, generating a unified whole that’s greater than the sum of its excellent parts. 

But okay, start with the story. Paris, 1945. World War II is over, and not all American GIs are in a rush to go home. Jerry (Luke Hawkins) is finding so much inspiration for his sketches in the City of Lights — especially when he encounters Lise (Sareen Tchekmedyian), on the cusp of becoming a prima ballerina — that he tears up his ticket home and wanders into a café where aspiring composer Adam (Louis Pardo) has landed a modest gig. Adam is helping Henri (Michael Bullard) with his dreams of becoming a song-and-dance man, and the trio become bestest buds. But when they all end up falling for the same gal — whose heart and sense of duty are pulling her in opposite directions — how’re we gonna get our happy ending?

The storytelling that brings us there is economical and far cleverer than you’ll generally find in the world of jukebox musicals. The plot is substantive enough to sustain interest all on its own, partly because somehow every character is not only supposed to be likeable but actually earns it. Then there are a few dashes of meta, as music happening in their world organically morphs into full-blown numbers in ours. Plus, the comedy works, all the better for its judiciousness. There’s no wasted motion in Craig Lucas’s book, and nothing that doesn’t ring true emotionally.

The superior acting of the cast brings every bit of that home. We absolutely get why everyone loves Lise. We absolutely feel Adam’s awkwardness and wit. We bask in the genuine warmth of Henri’s father (Martin Kildare). And as Henri’s mother, Leslie Stevens makes the most of her limited time at center stage, extracting all the humor and brittle humanity that Lucas has compressed into her character arc.

And they can sing, too.  Although the solos range from solid to great, it’s the combos that really soar. Two voices, four, the entire company — “wow” moments every time. And even though I saw a preview (press typically comes opening night), Julie Ferrin’s sound design was completely dialed in, perfectly balancing all voices with each other and with the orchestra (absolutely fabulous under David Lamoureux’s direction).

Musically, An American in Paris is like a volume of Gershwin’s Greatest Hits:  The Man I Love, ’S Wonderful, But Not for Me, They Can’t Take That Away from Me, For You, For Me, For Evermore . . . Yet they’re all used so thoughtfully it feels like every one was written for the purpose they serve here. I’ll Build a Stairway to Paradise, for example, is sublimated to the whole by eschewing most of the lyrics because Henri is distracted by unexpected guests at his song-and-dance debut. 

But for my taste, half of what the Gershwins do (especially George’s instrumental pieces) comes fully to life only when complemented by movement — and fully exploiting these possibilities is the genius of An American in Paris. In a musical like this (to whatever degree there are other musicals “like this”), with so much dancing tied to specific ideas (for example, there’s a 15-minute ballet-within-a-ballet starring Lise, who’s inspired by imaging Jerry as her partner as the real Jerry watches her dance), I don’t understand exactly how it works. What’s explicit in the script? They checked out the film, right? (Gene Kelly might have had an idea or two worth keeping, what?) Did they crib that bit on the park bench from La La Land? Did La La Land get it from Kelly? 

Whatever. It’s not so much that the dancing in director/choreographer Jeffry Denman’s An American in Paris is vigorous, elegant, clever, and fun — though it’s all that, too; it’s about how purposeful it is. Even to untrained eyes, most of the ballet directly relates to the music, and the tap is a tasteful layer of percussion (rhythms, syncopations, flourishes) rather than clickety-clack for its own sake. Clear symbiosis of music and movement. Even the show’s flattest songs (e.g.,  I’ve Got Beginner’s Luck) are redeemed by interesting choreographic turns. 

As for the execution of all those snazzy steps, to these untrained eyes An American in Paris seems to score a high degree of difficulty across the board. Tchekmedyian and Hawkins do the heaviest lifting, and they’re often spectacular. One of the biggest treats is  Liza, a back-and-forth where they joyously dabble in each other’s specialty. 

But in every sense, this show is about the gestalt. Fidgety Feet is such a smart stretch of overall choreography, melding the ever-swelling dance routine in our world with the stolid ballet being performed in theirs, that by the end you almost forget the first half, when Hawkins was so effortlessly commanding tapping atop the piano you were like: Fuck you, dude. After about 75% of the numbers I wanted to hit rewind and watch them again. Because Denman has meticulously choreographed  every second of this show, half the time you don’t know where to look. The ensemble plays an outsized role for both their dancing and their part in bringing this Paris to life.

It certainly doesn’t hurt that everything is visually sumptuous. From the opening tableau of a piano at center stage with a gallimaufry of color coming off the 88 keys, Jean-Yves Tessier’s lighting bathes and plays off every surface so vibrantly that the production photos are downright drab by comparison. Same goes for the set design. Whether we’re moving through the city or inside a salon or concert hall, David Arsenault’s considered mix of broad strokes (the inside of a large café window) and minute details (the rainbow of bottles at the bar) would be gorgeous even without being part of the overall dance: rotating on a turntable, presenting a variety of backgrounds (static and kinetic) on a half-dozen moveable vertical screens that perfectly tailor performance space to the choreography — and whose movement is part of the choreography.

Bradley Allen Lock’s costumery deserves special mention, if for no other reason than almost any one of Lise’s many outfits would stand out enough to serve as her official “uniform” in your average musical. That, combined with a great wig (kudos, Therese Levasseur), makes Sareen Tchekmedyian every bit as striking as Lise needs to be from the moment we meet her. 

For all the specifics I left out, this review could easily be twice as long. But you get the idea, right? This is musical theatre firing on all cylinders. Go!

An American in Paris at Musical Theatre West
Times: 8 p.m. Friday, 2 p.m. and 8 p.m. Saturday, 1 p.m. Sunday through April 30
Cost: $20 to $125; student rush tix: $15
Details: 562-856-1999, musical.org
Venue: Carpenter Performing Arts Center, 6200 W. Atherton, Long Beach