The hindsight saga — critical afterthoughts

Sometimes, to compensate for innate public lethargy, you have to overpraise just to make enough noise to get people to pay attention.

Owing to one thing and another, mostly another, critics rarely have a chance to return to a show to confirm the astuteness of their original perceptions, perhaps out of a nagging fear the show may appear better or worse than was uttered with such cocksure authority the first time.

Like umpires, reviewers rarely change their minds — not out of stubbornness or arrogance but because, for better or worse, we do seem to know our minds, such as they are. I can only recall a few instances of doing an aboutface on a show, movie or performer, when I condemned it either prematurely or too sharply and had to eat my words later.

Now, nakedly and willingly, I confess to six critical transgressions: “Bye Bye Birdie,” “A Chorus Line,” “Into the Woods,” “Nashville,” Andrea Marcovicci and “Beach Blanket Babylon,” all of which received the back of my hand when first encountered.

Subsequently, I retreated and finally reversed my original position until now I find myself a fan of all six; well, 5.5 anyway: “Beach Blanket” remains a work in progress, as do I. When I first saw “Bye Bye Birdie,” apart from falling madly for ingenue Susan Watson, it struck me as the most inane of musicals, but I was still new to theatrical inanity. The last time around, with Tommy Tune, the show somehow had accumulated inordinate charm, in large part because of Tune, but its inanity seems softened by time — more harmless, innocent and a large part of its charm quotient.

In 1972, I failed to see anything in “A Chorus Line” but a line of self-pitying dancers, failing to realize its groundbreaking or musical glories. I hang my head now but confess to walking out at the original workshop production at the New York Public Theater, muttering about all those whining dancers, but by the third time around I was suddenly captivated.

Likewise, I left midway through “Into the Woods” the first time (a preview, so I wasn’t duty-bound to review), unable to see the point — not surprising, since the second half gives Act I its poignant point, fleshes out the fairy-tale characters and creates a wholeness that, alas, I hadn’t let happen. As at most recent shows by Stephen Sondheim, it took a few visits to sink in, a facet of his genius but, at times, his curse. His best shows make their brilliance instantly clear (“Follies,” “Company,” “Gypsy”) but some day perhaps I’ll even embrace the ponderous “Sunday in the Park with George,” the passionless “A Little Night Music” and the impenetrable “Pacific Overtures.”

Shame of shames, I also departed “Nashville” (1975) midway through a screening, recoiling at what I considered heavy-handed irony, only to rent the film last year and find myself utterly absorbed. What happened in the interim 16 years? Somehow the music reached me and performances that once seemed shallow or tiresome now seemed textured and original. Most of all, I could see what director Robert Altman was up to, could discern his clever pattern of deceit in the film, which at first looked like so many disparate, incoherent parts; maybe someday I’ll even come around on “M*A*S*H” and “McCabe and Mrs. Miller.”

Andrea Marcovicci struck me, at first, as too intense and mannered. Frankly, too, I was distracted by her beauty and yet, paradoxically, put off by the occasional preening of same, unable to focus on her uncanny choice of songs, bright commentary and, best of all, her keen insight into lyrics, all of which came into focus when I heard them a second time.

Much to my shock and dismay, I actually liked “Beach Blanket Babylon” last time, two years ago, wondering for decades what all the shouting had been about for what seemed laboriously zany, but I’ve come around some since, or maybe just relaxed enough to see what others see in it. It’s still loudly zany, but last time I appreciated its go-for-broke goofiness, show-biz zest, high production values and anything-for-a-giggle spirit.

Also, having seen it before I don’t expect more than it can fairly deliver, a common problem in megahits that fall victim to their own reputation, hype and manic enthusiasts: You go in with a show-me attitude and unreasonable expectations, the reason I always fear overselling a good show.

Occasionally I’ve not only had to revise but, paradoxically, paid for my own enthusiasm — so carried away the first time out that I was disappointed when I went back, wondering why I went bananas originally; usually, however, I wish I’d been more positive. Sometimes, to compensate for innate public lethargy, you have to overpraise just to make enough noise to get people to pay attention, risking being considered either a patsy or a paid shill. This leads inevitably to the It-Was-Good-But-ItWasn’t-That-Good syndrome.

A curious related phenomenon occurs when you go to a show all set to love it and then it doesn’t deliver, forcing you to swallow your disappointment and fake it a little, to fill in what isn’t there with feigned enjoyment, like laughing at a bad joke to make the chuckling joke teller feel he hasn’t wasted his joke on you.

Many, even most, shows are attended by audiences who have persuaded themselves they’re gonna love it, because of the publicity or the pricey tickets reserved in 1990 or just plain optimism. They mistake the effort for the execution, a common confusion. Just about any show with high energy — lots of fast-paced movement, nonstop activity and general racket — is easily mistaken for terrific and amply rewarded with cheers; I read it as an unconsciously polite attempt to respond in kind.

Likewise, a lousy play that pulls out all the emotional stops may be considered “moving” or “exciting” by playgoers — not you and me, of course — who confuse tears, overwrought acting and shouting with emotion; it looks like emotion, it claims to be emotional, so it must be moving. Some audiences are so decent, or simply empathetic, they’re pained to see any show or performer bomb and tend to reward the cast with laughs and applause, or tears, simply to cushion the blow and make a show or an actor feel loved before the blasted critics get their mitts on them.

This column originally appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle on June 28, 1992.