My wife and I agree that our first date—our first “official” date, recognized by both of us as such—was a delightfully deconstructed PCPA stage production of Little Women in the 2001/2002 season. A spare set and minimal props did nothing to diminish the power of the story: four girls (little women, actually) navigating the formalities, intricacies, joys, and heartbreaks of a variety of relationships in Civil War America. Their father is away, fighting. Their rock of a mother holds the household together. The sisters promise lifelong fidelity and yet can perform astonishing acts of cruelty. Men enter the picture, and hearts are swayed. There are imposing and disapproving relatives and neighbors, changes of heart, triumphs and tragedies.
Central to the story is Jo March, a thinly veiled literary portrait of author Louisa May Alcott, who aims to be a published writer and rebels against the notions and niceties of the era with relish. She crafts thrilling pulp tales, avoids feminine expectations, and eschews the idea of becoming a wife. (“All girls marry,” her dour aunt intones; “I’m not all girls,” she replies.) Time, though, softens her resolute pronouncements and causes her to rethink and redraw some of her long-held lines in the proverbial sand.
Jo has three sisters, including the romantic Meg and the gentle Beth. I must admit that I sometimes confuse the youngest March sister, an impatient and somewhat vain Amy, with Lydia Bennet from Pride and Prejudice, another story about sisters dealing with matters of head and heart. Perhaps I can be forgiven the mix-up, especially considering that PCPA presented Jane Austen’s popular tale a little less than a year ago, and that Karin Hendricks played Jane Bennet then, and Jo March now.
But the present should take precedence in this review. Unlike the bare-bones play incarnation from the early days of my now-matrimonial relationship, the current Little Women is a Roger DeLaurier-directed musical, complete with period costumes and a rotating set. Scenic Designer DeAnne Kennedy does wonders with the space, which is dominated by a structure that sticks out farther than anything I can remember seeing on a stage that doesn’t extend into the house. Audiences first encounter a richly appointed boarding house room. One smooth half-rotation later, and the comfortably domestic March home appears. Another turn, however, doesn’t bring back the original set. Throughout the musical, doors and windows appear and disappear from one side of the set’s face, and what was first all framed paintings and tasteful furniture ultimately becomes a cloud-brushed sky overlooking a beach.
This versatile space is topped by an ever-present attic, cluttered and cozy. It’s Jo’s writing retreat, and a rehearsal space for the girls, and the site of some of the most heart-wrenching moments in the production. I wanted to spend more time in that attic, watching as the characters explored boxed-up items and unearthed memories that brought laughter and tears.
Of the latter, there are plenty—for the sisters and for the audience. My wife wept more than once, due partly to knowing the story and keying in on the foreshadowing of challenges to come and partly to the fact that she’s pregnant and will shed tears if the wind changes direction.
There are also laughs. Hendricks prompts many of these with her feisty delivery. She eagerly narrates her stories in progress to those around her, and, once or twice, the tales come to life and spill into the otherwise real-life setting. Swordplay erupts as a villainous rogue attempts to have his way with a young maiden early in the first act. Hendricks’ Jo delivers lines in tandem with the fictional ne’er-do-well, reveling in an evil laugh as she joins her creation in outlining his nefarious deeds. She writes a hero, too, but her obvious favor is for blood and guts—cheerfully sung about in the Christmas-themed “An Operatic Tragedy.”
On a musical note, I was disappointed that the tunes weren’t more distinctive. No, that’s not right. The Act One finale, “Astonishing,” gave me goosebumps, as Hendricks poured Jo’s passion and hope into lyrics and melody, but it was the first time I really noticed the music as something. Act Two’s opening hit hard as well, bringing even more of Jo’s characters to life. I’d like to give Jason Howland (music) and Mindi Dickstein (lyrics) the benefit of the doubt; if they aimed to make the show’s musical evolution mirror Jo’s own maturation and growth in confidence, they succeeded. But I didn’t walk away humming a romantic number I couldn’t get out of my head, which is half the fun of going to a musical. I did, however, find myself singing snatches of Wicked and Into the Woods, both of which seemed to influence parts of this production.
Truth is, it’s difficult to sing about writing. The craft is such a personal one, a solitary one. It’s easier to sing about love, and the actors do so here. I thought I noticed some unusually low notes from the women and some extra falsetto-esque high notes in the men’s songs, but perhaps I was overly alert for overturned gender stereotypes.
PCPA stalwart Andrew Philpot is reliably good as Professor Bhaer, a man who may give Jo reason to reconsider her life choices. And Elizabeth Stuart anchors the ensemble cast as Marmee, the girls’ hard-working mother who seeks to raise them as best she can—a difficult prospect at times, such as when Jo remarks of her trying sister Amy (Brittney Monroe, who manages to keep bratty pouting from going over the top), “It’s not your fault, though you did give birth to her.”
Marmee responds, somewhat pragmatically, that she can’t make them love each other, but she can demand that they live together with respect.
Sarah Girard is fine as Meg, a character I’d like to have seen more of, as she suffers some sitcom-caliber scenes in the novel when she enters married life and motherhood. But with a focus on Jo, less must be told of the other sisters’ lives. Renee Wylder plays the piano-loving Beth with an understated grace, and her final exit from the stage is beautiful and, yes, tear-inducing.
Knowing the story in advance does little to soften the emotional blows, so don’t think you’re above it all if you’ve seen or read Little Women before. Admiring Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy didn’t stop you from searching your Netflix queue for … oh, wait. That’s Pride and Prejudice again.
Executive Editor Ryan Miller has a hankering for pickled limes. Send comments to rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Feb 23 – Mar 1, 2012.