Last night G and I went to see Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein on Broadway. I had a fun time, really enjoyed myself at the show. G had a better time at dinner with my father and stepmother at Osteria al Doge. I loved all of the dancing and the beautiful costumes; G thought (and I agree) that the play was simply a rehash of the movie, with actors chosen for their resemblances to Gene Wilder, Madeline Kahn, Marty Feldman, Cloris Leachman, and Teri Garr. The genius of Wilder and Kahn can’t be ignored, much less copied, but the actors did a passable job. Andrea Martin revised the role of Frau Blücher (horses whinny in the background) that was immortalized by Ms. Leachman, and did a great job of bringing her own voice to the performance instead of just imitating. Megan Mullally played Elizabeth, bringing her experience as Karen Walker from Will & Grace to the part, the selfish, self-centered, egotistical vamp coming through in spades. Christopher Fitzgerald was a wonderful Igor, putting forth the most physical performance of them all, but even so, you felt the ghost of the bug-eyed Mr. Feldman haunting the stage. The sets were stunning, the dancing was fun to watch, and the songs, all written and composed by Mr. Brooks, seemed perfectly at home. Which was one of G’s complaints; perhaps if someone other than Brooks had written the songs, it might have felt like a new piece of art, instead of him trying to milk a classic. To send the point home was a line from the last song of the night: “Maybe next year, Blazing Saddles.”
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