Pining for some authenticity
‘Lover, Beloved’ proves musically strong but too broad to really land its punch
Midway through “Lover, Beloved: An Evening With Carson McCullers,” the musical at the Alley Theatre in which folk-pop singer Suzanne Vega portrays the titular Southern Gothic novelist, Vega produces a sheet of paper.
Before reading from it, she tells us it’s a page torn from the diary of McCullers’ unrequited lover, Annemarie Schwarzenbach. A torn diary page? For McCullers, this seems a rather invasive act. But that’s status quo thus far for Vega — the singer has already spent an hour haphazardly tearing pages from existing material.
Written more like a pile of scattered pages than a full story, “Lover, Beloved” has such wide interests it never finishes the ideas it presents. Gesticulating with the same mechanical rhythm as her speaking cadence — like a Shakespearean actor overstressing iambic pentameter — McCullers tells us she wishes she were a man. She says she loves her husband, Reeves, despite his constant cheating. She hints at her jealousy of Harper Lee’s success. But why, why and why? Vega, by virtue of researching and embodying such an intriguing and underrated American literary figure, convinces us her subject matter is compelling. The show does this by dancing across too many biographical bullet points, though, instead of taking a single plunge into one moment. It’s the same issue that plagues many historical oneperson shows, from Mark St. Germain’s Wikipedia-theater “Becoming Dr. Ruth” to Val Kilmer’s unfocused, indulgent “Citizen Twain.”
Vega has been working on her McCullers project for years. She, along with “Lover, Beloved” co-composer Duncan Sheik, premiered a play in 2011 and released an album in 2016, both with the same idea of expressing McCullers through original songs. Last season, Vega workshopped her musical in an informal performance at the Alley, sitting on a stool with nothing but a guitar. In hindsight, the workshop makes the final production at the Alley’s Neuhaus Theatre, directed by Jackson Gay, feel extraneous.
Scenic designer Takeshi Kata’s raised thrust stage bears a desk and a typewriter, but we’re told the setting is the 92nd Street Y, not a study. When Vega breaks into song, the lights (by Paul Whitaker) dim and a spotlight emerges, reminding us unnecessarily that she is now singing rather than talking. Later in the play, when McCullers is aged and near death, she rolls around in a wheelchair, but she doesn’t speak or act like an older woman. And Jason Hart’s small-scale instrumentation, featuring a five-piece acoustic band, nevertheless does too much, especially when McCullers’ bohemian yearning is backed by Randy Newmanesque uptempo jazz.
Vega and Sheik’s songwriting is confident from a musical standpoint. Vega sings effortlessly, her voice ranging from sandy to lustrous. You can tell it’s the easiest thing in the world for this woman, singing beautifully. Vega fans will have plenty to chew on if they treat the show like a concert.
But the lyrics lack the poetry all three contributors — Vega, Sheik and McCullers — have demonstrated in their individual work. Vega, who once wrote of love, “Today I am a small blue thing. Made of china, made of glass,” now sings lyrics such as “Harper, Harper, Harper. Lee, Lee, Lee.” Wearing a wig that makes her resemble McCullers, Vega thrusts her arms out as she sings. The sight makes you wonder, though, who really is on the stage. If only we had the real McCullers, or even the real Vega. You leave the show hungry for such authenticity.