Posted on Oct 26, 2014 by CHARLES ISHERWOOD | Reposted 27 Oct 2014 4:49 PM PT
Photo: Joan Marcus
Hard times, blighted lives and the bleak humor that occasionally lifts the fog: The universe of “The Last Ship,” the new musical with a score by Sting about a shipbuilding town in decline, lies at some distance from its peppier neighbors on Broadway, where megaphoned uplift and easy escapism tend to thrive.
For that reason alone, it’s hard not to root for this ambitious, earnest musical, which opened on Sunday night at the Neil Simon Theater. Rich in atmosphere — I half expected to see sea gulls reeling in the rafters — and buoyed by a seductive score that ranks among the best composed by a rock or pop figure for Broadway, the musical explores with grit and compassion the lives of the town’s disenfranchised citizens, left behind as the industry that gave them their livelihood set sail for foreign lands.
But along with its accomplishments, which include a host of vital performances from its ample cast under the direction of Joe Mantello, “The Last Ship” also has its share of nagging flaws. The book, by John Logan (“Red”) and Brian Yorkey (“Next to Normal”), and inspired in part by Sting’s own upbringing in the northeast England town Wallsend, where the show is set, is unfocused and diffuse. It’s hamstrung by a division between a David versus Goliath story — of the little folk fighting against the faceless forces of the global economy — and a romantic love triangle.
…
Airborne is what this musical definitely is not. While it shares a working-class milieu with popular shows like “Once,” “Kinky Boots” and “Billy Elliot,” “The Last Ship” doesn’t aim for the romantic allure or jubilant spirit of those more formulaic shows; it’s fundamentally about loss, regret and unhappy or ambiguous endings. Those are all worthy subjects of musical dramatization, as some of Stephen Sondheim’s great shows and many an opera have established. But for all the ruminative, haunting beauty of its score, this musical often feels dramatically landlocked — like a ship without a crew.