Delicious Theatre: Greenday's AMERICAN IDIOT arrives on Broadway!

From The New York Times:
Stomping Onto Broadway With a Punk Temper Tantrum
by Charles Isherwood

Rage and love, those consuming emotions felt with a particularly acute pang in youth, all but burn up the stage in AMERICAN IDIOT, the thrillingly raucous and gorgeously wrought Broadway musical adapted from the blockbuster pop-punk album by Green Day.

Pop on Broadway, sure. But punk? Yes, indeed, and served straight up, with each sneering lyric and snarling riff in place. A stately old pile steps from the tourist-clogged Times Square might seem a strange place for the music of Green Day, and for theater this blunt, bold and aggressive in its attitude. Not to mention loud. But from the moment the curtain rises on a panorama of baleful youngsters at the venerable St. James Theater, where the show opened on Tuesday night, it's clear that these kids are going to make themselves at home, even if it means tearing up the place in the process.

Which they do, figuratively speaking. "American Idiot," directed by Michael Mayer and performed with galvanizing intensity by a terrific cast, detonates a fierce aesthetic charge in this ho-hum Broadway season. A pulsating portrait of wasted youth that invokes all the standard genre conventions - bring on the sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll, please! - only to transcend them through the power of its music and the artistry of its execution, the show is as invigorating and ultimately as moving as anything I've seen on Broadway this season. Or maybe for a few seasons past.

Burning with rage and love, and knowing how and when to express them, are two different things, of course. The young men we meet in the first minutes of "American Idiot" are too callow and sullen and restless - too young, basically - to channel their emotions constructively. The show opens with a glorious 20-minute temper tantrum kicked off by the title song.

"Don't want to be an American idiot!" shouts one of the gang. The song's signature electric guitar riff slashes through the air, echoing the testy challenge of the cry. A sharp eight-piece band, led by the conductor Carmel Dean, is arrayed around the stage, providing a sonic frame for the action. The simple but spectacular set, designed by Christine Jones, suggests an epically scaled dive club, its looming walls papered in punk posters and pimpled by television screens, on which frenzied video collages flicker throughout the show. (They're the witty work of Darrel Maloney.)

Who's the American idiot being referred to? Well, as that curtain slowly rose, we heard the familiar voice of George W. Bush break through a haze of television chatter: "Either you are with us, or with the terrorists." That kind of talk could bring out the heedless rebel in any kid, particularly one who is already feeling itchy at the lack of prospects in his dreary suburban burg.

But while "American Idiot" is nominally a portrait of youthful malaise of a particular era - the album dates from 2004, the midpoint of the Bush years, and the show is set in "the recent past" - its depiction of the crisis of post-adolescence is essentially timeless. Teenagers eager for their lives to begin, desperate to slough off their old selves and escape boredom through pure sensation, will probably always be making the same kinds of mistakes, taking the same wrong turns on the road to self-discovery.

"American Idiot" is a true rock opera, almost exclusively using the music of Green Day and the lyrics of its kohl-eyed frontman, Billie Joe Armstrong, to tell its story. (The score comprises the whole of the title album as well as several songs from the band's most recent release, "21st Century Breakdown.") The book, by Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Mayer, consists only of a series of brief, snarky dispatches sent home by the central character, Johnny, played with squirmy intensity by the immensely gifted John Gallagher Jr. ("Spring Awakening," "Rabbit Hole").

"I held up my local convenience store to get a bus ticket," Johnny says with a smirk as he and a pal head out of town.

"Actually I stole the money from my mom's dresser."

Beat.

"Actually she lent me the cash."

Such is the sheepish fate of a would-be rebel today. But at least Johnny and his buddy Tunny (Stark Sands) do manage to escape deadly suburbia for the lively city, bringing along just their guitars and the anomie and apathy that are the bread and butter of teenage attitudinizing the world over. ("I don't care if you don't care," a telling lyric, could be their motto.)

The friend they meant to bring along, Will (Michael Esper), was forced to stay home when he discovered that his girlfriend (Mary Faber) was pregnant. Lost and lonely, and far from ready for the responsibilities of fatherhood, he sinks into the couch, beer in one hand and bong in the other, as his friends set off for adventure.

Beneath the swagger of indifference, of course, are anxiety, fear and insecurity, which Mr. Gallagher, Mr. Esper and Mr. Sands transmit with aching clarity in the show's more reflective songs, like the hit "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" or the lilting anthem "Are We the Waiting." The city turns out to be just a bigger version of the place Johnny and Tunny left behind, a "land of make believe that don't believe in me." The boys discover that while a fractious 21st-century America may not offer any easy paths to fulfillment, the deeper problem is that they don't know how to believe in themselves.

Johnny strolls the lonely streets with his guitar, vaguely yearning for love and achievement. He eventually hooks up with a girl (a vivid Rebecca Naomi Jones) but falls more powerfully under the spell of an androgynous goth drug pusher, St. Jimmy, played with mesmerizing vitality and piercing vocalism by Tony Vincent. Tunny mostly stays in bed, clicker affixed to his right hand, dangerously susceptible to a pageant of propaganda about military heroism on the tube, set to the song "Favorite Son." By the time the song's over, he's enlisted and off to Iraq.

In both plotting and its emotional palette, "American Idiot" is drawn in brash, primary-colored strokes, maybe too crudely for those looking for specifics of character rather than cultural archetypes. But operas - rock or classical - often trade in archetypes, and the actors flesh out their characters' journeys through their heartfelt interpretations of the songs, with the help of Mr. Mayer's poetic direction and the restless, convulsive choreography of Steven Hoggett ("Black Watch"), which exults in both the grace and the awkwardness of energy-generating young metabolisms.

Line by line, a skeptic could fault Mr. Armstrong's lyrics for their occasional glibness or grandiosity. That's to be expected, too: rock music exploits heightened emotion and truisms that can fit neatly into a memorable chorus. The songs are precisely as articulate - and inarticulate - as the characters are, reflecting the moment in youth when many of us feel that pop music has more to say about us than we have to say for ourselves. (And, really, have you ever worked your way through a canonical Italian opera libretto, line by line?)

In any case the music is thrilling: charged with urgency, rich in memorable melody and propulsive rhythms that sometimes evolve midsong. The orchestrations by Tom Kitt (the composer of "Next to Normal") move from lean and mean to lush, befitting the tone of each number. Even if you are unfamiliar with Green Day's music, you are more likely to emerge from this show humming one of the guitar riffs than you are to find a tune from "The Addams Family" tickling your memory.

But the emotion charge that the show generates is as memorable as the music. "American Idiot" jolts you right back to the dizzying roller coaster of young adulthood, that turbulent time when ecstasy and misery almost seem interchangeable states, flip sides of the coin of exaltation. It captures with a piercing intensity that moment in life when everything seems possible, and nothing seems worth doing, or maybe it's the other way around.

DELICIOUS REMEMBERS: 'Designing Women' Dixie Carter (1939 -2010)

''Designing Women'' star Dixie Carter, whose Southern charm and natural beauty won her a host of television roles, has died at age 70.

Carter died Saturday morning on April 10, according to publicist Steve Rohr, who represents Carter and her husband, actor Hal Holbrook. He declined to disclose the cause of death or where she died. Carter lived with Holbrook in the Los Angeles area.

''This has been a terrible blow to our family,'' Holbrook said in a written statement. ''We would appreciate everyone understanding that this is a private family tragedy.''

A native of Tennessee, Carter was most famous for playing wisecracking Southerner Julia Sugarbaker for seven years on ''Designing Women,'' the CBS sitcom that ran from 1986 to 1993. The series was the peak of a career in which she often played wealthy and self-important but independent Southern women.

She was nominated for an Emmy in 2007 for her seven-episode guest stint on the ABC hit ''Desperate Housewives.''

Carter's other credits include roles on the series ''Family Law'' and ''Diff'rent Strokes.''

She married Holbrook in 1984. The two had met four years earlier while making the TV movie ''The Killing of Randy Webster,'' and although attracted to one another, each had suffered two failed marriages and were wary at first.

They finally wed two years before Carter landed her role on ''Designing Women.'' Holbrook appeared on the show regularly in the late 1980s as her boyfriend, Reese Watson.

The two appeared together in her final project, the 2009 independent film ''That Evening Sun,'' shot in Tennessee and based on a short story by Southern novelist William Gay.

The middle of three children, Carter was born in 1939 in McLemoresville, Tenn.

Carter was the daughter of a grocery and department store owner who died just three years ago at 96. She said at the time of his death that he taught her to believe in people's essential goodness.

''When I asked him how he handled shoplifting in his new store, which had a lot of goods on display, making it impossible to keep an eye on everything, he said, 'Most people are honest, and if they weren't, you couldn't stay in business because a thief will find a way to steal,''' Carter said. '''You can't really protect yourself, but papa and I built our business believing most people are honest and want to do right by you.'''

Carter grew up in Carroll County and made her stage debut in a 1960 production of ''Carousel'' in Memphis. It was the beginning of a decades-long stage career in which she relied on her singing voice as much as her acting.

She appeared in TV soap operas in the 1970s, but did not become a national star until her recurring roles on ''Diff'rent Strokes'' and another series, ''Filthy Rich,'' in the 1980s.

Those two parts led to her role on ''Designing Women,'' a comedy about the lives of four women at an interior design firm in Atlanta.

Carter and Delta Burke played the sparring sisters who ran the firm. The series also starred Annie Potts and Jean Smart.

The show, whose reruns have rarely left the airwaves, was not a typical sitcom. It tackled such topics as sexism, ageism, body image and AIDS.

''It was something so unique, because there had never been anything quite like it,'' Potts told The Associated Press at a 2006 cast reunion. ''We had Lucy and Ethel, but we never had that exponentially expanded, smart, attractive women who read newspapers and had passions about things and loved each other and stood by each other.''

Carter appeared on the drama ''Family Law'' from 1999 to 2002, and in her last major TV appearance she played Gloria Hodge, the surly mother-in-law to Marcia Cross’s Bree on ''Desperate Housewives.''

Carter said the role was far from the kindly woman she played on ''Designing Women.''

''It's a vast difference,'' Carter said while filming the series. ''Gloria Hodge doesn't have any redeeming qualities except her intelligence.''

In addition to Holbrook, Carter is survived by daughters Mary Dixie and Ginna.

DELICIOUS congratulations to Ricky Martin!

RICKY MARTIN  - LIVIN' LA VIDA OPEN - SAYS HE'S GAY

Ricky Martin is no longer denying the rumors: He's gay. In a statement posted via Twitter in both Spanish and English, and later confirmed with his representative, Martin said: "I am proud to say that I am a fortunate homosexual man. I am very blessed to be who I am."
 
For many, Monday's announcement will come as no surprise; the "Livin' La Vida Loca" singer's sexuality has been speculated about for years. But the Puerto Rican star, who got his start as a child in the teen group Menudo, never directly addressed it and was usually seen at events with beautiful women on his arm.
 
Martin, 38, said he decided to reveal the truth after working on his memoirs helped him realize that he had to be free with himself, and not keep any more secrets.
 
"From the moment I wrote the first phrase I was sure the book was the tool that was going to help me free myself from things I was carrying within me for a long time. Things that were too heavy for me to keep inside," he said. "Writing this account of my life, I got very close to my truth. And this is something worth celebrating."
 
Martin said one of the reasons why he kept his homosexuality hidden was because he was told by some that it would hurt his career. While his U.S. career peaked after the release of his 1999 self-titled English album, a multiplatinum success that included the hits "Livin' La Vida Loca" and "Shake Your Bon-Bon," he is still a hugely successful Latin artist.

"Because all this advice came from people who I love dearly, I decided to move on with my life not sharing with the world my entire truth," he said in his statement. "Allowing myself to be seduced by fear and insecurity became a self-fulfilling prophecy of sabotage. Today I take full responsibility for my decisions and my actions."

Martin, who is the father of two boys born via surrogate in 2008, said he couldn't continue to hide his sexuality now that he is a father: "Enough is enough. This has to change."

Martin's book is still a work in progress.
---

On the Net: http://www.rickymartin.com/

HEALTHCARE REFORM PASSES!

DELICIOUS remembers: "Lost Boy" Corey Haim

If the Artful Dodger had smartened himself up, dyed his hair, worn snazzy jackets with the sleeves rolled up, and sought an alternative career as a Tiger Beat cover star, he would have resembled Corey Haim at the peak of his career.

The Canadian actor, who has died unexpectedly aged 38, did not spend more than a few years in the limelight. Yet it was his chirpy, irrepressible personality, as much as the occasional high-profile film role between the mid-1980s and early 90s, that earned him the affectionate regard of mainstream audiences. Out of a meagre selection of movies, many of which went straight to video or DVD, it was the 1987 vampire romp The Lost Boys which earned him his teenybopper fanbase; the lopsided smile, impish eyes and jauntily spiked hair made him perfect pin-up fodder. The Lost Boys paired him with Corey Feldman, another rising young actor, who would become his close friend and frequent co-star. Viewers responded positively to the rapport between these young clowns who relished visibly the privileges of their fame.

Haim was born in Toronto to Bernie, a salesman, and Judy, who worked in computing. His parents separated when Haim was 11; by this time, he had already expressed an interest in acting after attending auditions with his older sister, Cari. He landed a regular part on the Canadian television series The Edison Twins, then travelled to Los Angeles to appear in his 1984 debut film, First Born. This drama starred Teri Garr as a divorced mother-of-two whose disreputable new boyfriend is rumbled by her offspring, including Haim as the younger lad. Haim was also cast as Sally Field's son in the romantic comedy Murphy's Romance (1985).

He started to attract positive notices, including one from Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times, who singled him out in a review of Lucas (1986), the actor's first lead role. "Lucas is played by Corey Haim, who ... does not give one of those cute little boy performances that get on your nerves," wrote Ebert. "He creates one of the most three-dimensional, complicated, interesting characters of any age in any recent movie. If he can continue to act this well, he will never become a half-forgotten child star, but will continue to grow into an important actor. He is that good."

Joel Schumacher hired Haim to play the younger brother to a brooding vampire in The Lost Boys, in which the stylistic cues came from MTV rather than Hammer Horror. Many of the cast members (Jason Patric, Kiefer Sutherland) went on to greater success, but for Haim this was as good as it got. The goofiness that made him so appealing here – his bathtub rendition of Ain't Got No Home was a dotty highlight – would come to define him, and to inhibit any progress as an actor. In 2007, Feldman reflected explicitly on his friend's apparent unwillingness to stray far from his own persona. "I would love to see Corey find the greatest stretch, the hardest character, the most removed element from him ... I would be a huge fan of that work. I would just love to see anything that didn't represent him as Corey Haim, because I've seen enough of that."

Haim got by for a few years after The Lost Boys in a succession of undistinguished comedies, reuniting with Feldman in License to Drive (1988) and Dream a Little Dream (1989). He branched out into futuristic roller-blade science fiction in Prayer of the Rollerboys (1991). But his star was in decline, and an addiction to drugs preceded spells in rehab, as well as a dramatic weight gain that saw the diminutive performer hit nearly 300lb. His mother persuaded him to move away from the temptations of Hollywood and back with her to Toronto. In 2004, he was recalled in a popular single by the Thrills, Whatever Happened to Corey Haim? Despite its title, the song had little to do with Haim, though it did at least put that question onto people's lips. (The actor's response was: "I'm clean, sober, humble and happy.")

The moderate revival of interest which the song provoked may in some small way have helped to get Haim and Feldman's reality TV show, 'The Two Coreys', off the ground. That series, which began in 2007, revolved around Haim moving in with Feldman and his wife. Despite carrying the whiff of an extended publicity stunt, the show supplied the occasional instance of car-crash television, such as Haim coming to blows with Feldman after insulting his wife, or breaking down in tears upon discovering that his services were not required for a 'Lost Boys' sequel.

At the time of his death, Haim had three films ready for release, including the thriller American Sunset. It was no secret that he hoped to recapture his 1980s success. "I want to be the guy they talk about when they talk about comebacks," he said three years ago. "I want people to learn from me, see I'm human, and understand that I make mistakes just like they do, but it doesn't have to consume you. You've got to walk through the raindrops, and that's totally what I am trying to do."

• Corey Haim, actor, born 23 December 1971; died 10 March 2010

Delicious Theatre: "PAINT NEVER DRIES"

Do you recall BYE BYE BIRDIE? Of course you do. But do you recall its sequel BRING BACK BIRDIE? How about the sequels to ANNIE or THE BEST LITTLE WHOREHOUSE IN TEXAS? Difficult, right? That's because they all failed - miserably. Whatever small charms these continuations may have contained were completely offset by the fact that, without exception, they all proved to be inferior and unnessesary in comparison to the glorious originals. Well, poodles, the long-promised sequel to Andrew Lloyd Webber's megahit PHANTOM OF THE OPERA - the biggest theatrical phenomenon of the 20th Century - is here. It's called LOVE NEVER DIES.

And we absolutely hate it.

As do many, many others. LOVE NEVER DIES has had some stinging reviews: "this poor spoof a show" (The New York Times); "misses on all fronts" (Jewish Chronicle); "lacks psychological plausibility - worse, it lacks heart" (London Evening Standard); "simply torpid. Only a radical rewrite will give it even the remotest chance of emulating its predecessor." (Variety).

What's wrong with it you ask? Well, for one thing, the story is just awful. We simply do not buy any of the changes in Raoul - or any of the other returning characters for that matter. Where oh where is the dramatic tension? All of the mystery and menance that made the phantom so delightfully memorable lo these many years have been drained away completely. (He even appears alongside all the other characters in the outrageously laughable 14 minute finale!)

And please... could someone fill us in on just HOW Christine and the Phantom could have sired little Gustave? Admittedly, it has been some time since seeing the Broadway production wonderfully staged by Hal Prince, but as we recall, Christine was drawn to the Phantom's beautiful soul - but repelled by his hideous looks. (look but don't touch.) In fact, anyone who saw Michael Crawford - or any of the subsequent broadway phantoms unmasked, would surely remember why. Our question then would have to be, are we to assume that Andrew Lloyd Webber and his collaborators would rather we recall the sexy film version of the character played by Gerard Butler (who only seemed to suffer a mild case of acne)... OR, was Christine date raped one evening after copious amounts of liquor and a few ruffies?

Discuss...

Fans of unintentional camp will probably adore the laughably anti-climatic second act finale which contains, perhaps, the longest death scene in recorded history. We won't spoil just who dies for you, but you may want to give the cd a listen before attending a performance as it may be difficult to hear the actors over the audience's giggles.

As to the score, with the exception of one - maybe two - songs, this has to be one of ALW's worst. (And given his output since the occasionally sublime SUNSET BLVD, that's a pretty hard record to top.) We enjoyed the original PHANTOM score - but this! Are we still at the opera? (More so than the first go round we fear.) We were led to believe that the show was set at Coney Island? (According to the reviews, the sets and projections are visually stunning, but from what we can hear, the score only seems to give occasional hints of being at that famed American institution.)

Much of the music is derivative of the worst of all Lloyd Webber's most recent disastrous attempts at a hit. And where oh where does Britain's favorite musical composer find these lyricists who's only gift is to write with little wit or imagination? (He even managed to make the usually talented broadway lyricist David Zippel seem like a hack in the dreadful sung-through bore THE WOMAN IN WHITE.)

Which brings us to the SUNG-THROUGH question. Would it kill Webber to write a show with actual dialogue? When will he wake up and realize that the 80s - and all that sung-through British claptrap that came out of it - are dead and gone? We've all moved on. Why can't he?

And recycling the song OUR KIND OF LOVE (A melody originally written for PHANTOM 2 but later re-titled, re-lyriced, re-used and recorded in THE BEAUTIFUL GAME) for the title song borders on insanity. Why not write something new?

For that matter, why bother to write a deflating sequel to one of the few glorious acheivements of his rather checkered career at all? Lord Lloyd Webber's choices in projects and collaborators just continues to astound us. 

For those of you sane enough to have waited for the reviews before buying the CD, here is a reprint of Ben Brantley's delightfully scathing review from the New York Times for your edification and amusement.

enjoy! - HVR

"LOVE NEVER DIES" - Same Phantom, Different Spirit
If you don’t know the first “Phantom,” you will be very confused; if you do know the first “Phantom,” you will also be very confused.

By Ben Brantley, The New York Times

LONDON — To think that all this time that poor old half-faced composer hasn’t been dead at all, just stewing in his lust for greater glory. Being the title character of The Phantom of the Opera, the most successful musical of all time, wasn’t enough for him. Oh, no. Like so many aging stars, he was determined to return — with different material and a rejuvenated body — to the scene of his first triumph. So now he’s back in the West End with a big, gaudy new show. And he might as well have a “kick me” sign pasted to his backside.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for the Phantom, who has been uncomfortably reincarnated in Love Never Dies, which opened Tuesday night at the Adelphi Theater here. Surely no stage show has ever been as widely and severely prejudged as this belated sequel from Andrew Lloyd Webber.

You see, Mr. Lloyd Webber’s original Phantom of the Opera, based on the oft-filmed 1911 novel by Gaston Leroux, has developed a stark raving fan base since it opened (and never closed) in London and on Broadway in the late 1980s. When the news got out that there was to be another show about the Phantom — to be set in early-20th-century Coney Island, no less, instead of gaslight Paris — a few of those fans took to their cybersoapboxes to cry sacrilege.

Soon theater writers (including me) were receiving e-mail messages from “Phantom”-ites lamenting the show’s rank inappropriateness. And they hadn’t even seen the darn thing. Once the musical went into previews, many were reporting in chat rooms and blogs that their darkest fears had been confirmed.

Of course, bad advance word on the Internet has sometimes proved false. (Ever hear of Avatar?) And I would be delighted to tell you that’s what happened here, especially since Love Never Dies is scheduled for Broadway this fall. But how can I, when at every opportunity Mr. Lloyd Webber’s latest sets itself up to be knocked down? Directed by the protean Jack O’Brien (Hairspray, the New York production of The Coast of Utopia), choreographed by a seriously underused Jerry Mitchell and designed by Bob Crowley (Mary Poppins, The History Boys), this poor sap of a show feels as eager to be walloped as a clown in a carnival dunking booth.

For starters, the title, with its promise of immortality, was just asking for trouble. And its breathless solemnity pervades the show’s every aspect. This production keeps such a straight face, it’s as if the slightest smile might crack it. It never acknowledges that in a musical in which no one could exactly be described as animated, it might be a mistake to introduce your leading lady in the form of an automaton in her image. Or that it’s probably not a good idea to have your hero, in his first solo, sing “the moments creep, but I can’t bear to sleep” to a melody that moves like a sloth in quicksand.

That fellow for whom time creeps is the Phantom (Ramin Karimloo), now going by the name of Mr. Y. (Is that because Y is the, uh, sequel to X?) A decade after he terrorized the Paris Opera with falling chandeliers and his deadly Punjab lasso trick, Mr. Y has set up his own little sinister sideshow, called Phantasma (no comment), in Coney Island. Though Phantasma bids fair to be the season’s must-see cultural destination, the Phantom deplores “10 years of wasting my time in smoke and noise.” (No comment.)

Under his assumed name, the Phantom engages Christine Daaé (Sierra Boggess), the famous French soprano whom he once stalked and hypnotized, to appear in his show. Wearing the latest in French fashion (and a cunning little head mike), she arrives with her vicomte husband, Raoul (Joseph Millson), and her 10-year-old son, Gustave (played by a rotating cast of child actors). The advent of the glamorous Christine antagonizes the Phantom’s envious aides-de-camp, Madame Giry (Liz Robertson, doing a Frenchified Judith Anderson as Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca) and her daughter, Meg (Summer Strallen), hitherto the singing star of Phantasma.

Friends of “Phantom” will recognize these characters, as they are all (except Gustave) recycled — and in some cases, changed beyond recognition — from the earlier show. The book is credited to four writers: Mr. Lloyd Webber, the comedian Ben Elton, the novelist Frederick Forsyth and the show’s lyricist, Glenn Slater. And its plot is so elaborate and implausible it makes the libretto of Il Trovatore read like a first-grade primer. If you don’t know the first “Phantom,” you will be very confused; if you do know the first “Phantom,” you will also be very confused.

Granted, using Coney Island as the setting makes a certain sense. The Phantom of the Opera was one of the first (and best) versions of that grandiose showbiz genre, the musical as amusement park ride. (The last time I saw it, 10 years ago, it was sort of like visiting Coney Island’s venerable Cyclone roller coaster, rickety but sturdy.) So why not put on a show set in a real amusement park?

Yet the wheels that keep this particular park in motion grind torturously. There’s no equivalent to the stage-crossing gondola of “Phantom” (unless you count the mechanical glass horse that briefly appears in Act I). The thrill rides, like much of the scenery here, are digital projections (often rather pretty) on scrims. Most of the three-dimensional scenery is made up of vast Art Noveau gates and sculptures, huge creations that match Mr. Lloyd Webber’s melodies in form and weight.

While lushly orchestrated (by David Cullen with Mr. Lloyd Webber), the score is, for the most part, so slow that you have time to anticipate Mr. Slater’s next leaden rhyme. Each of the songs — which range from bathing-beauty frolics to power-chord operetta ballads — spins a single tune until it loses its tread.

Since the lead singers are required to haunt demanding, throat-taxing upper registers, it is perhaps too much to expect them to act as well. As the Phantom, Mr. Karimloo sings with all the force that artificial amplification allows. Vocally, the pretty Ms. Boggess (who starred in The Little Mermaid on Broadway) combines the more mechanical qualities of Jeanette MacDonald and Julie Andrews. Mr. Millson glares handsomely. And Ms. Strallen, as the unappreciated Meg, has a spark of something like personality.

If this show could speed up and loosen up it might be (marginally) more amusing. As it is, only a couple of sequences are campy enough to elicit “whoa, nelly” smiles. Well, one, anyway: an electric-rock number in which the Phantom, accompanied by an automaton skeleton organist, communes with little Gustave, who takes off his jacket and swings it in the air, like a miniature Van Halen member.

That’s the concluding number of the first act, and it actually has some energy. But true to self-sabotaging form, this musical follows that song with the bizarrely unexciting postscript of Mrs. Danvers, I mean Mme. Giry, tossing the kid’s jacket down a stairwell. This is matched, in the second act climax, by what feels like the longest death scene of all time. Relax, I’m not going to tell you who dies (while gasping out a reprise of the title song). Why bother, when from beginning to end, Love Never Dies is its very own spoiler.

In the delicious 2000 film FINAL DESTINATION, 'The 'Omen'--like setup, (a grisly death every 15 minutes or so), rolls along like a funhouse ride.

Here's one that won't be shown on transcontinental flights anytime soon. FINAL DESTINATION, a great piece of cinematic junk food, opens with one of the most frightening depictions of airplane disaster you've ever seen, and if you can get past that, you'll be shoveling the popcorn in, begging for more.

Devon Sawa and his really white classmates board a plane for an end-of-the-year field trip. Among them are Dawson's Creek star Kerr Smith as your garden-variety jock jerk and Ali Larter as that most head-scratching of movie constructs, the gorgeous geek who's obviously the coolest chick in school. Sawa has a vision of the aircraft going up in flames, so of course he causes a scene and gets himself, his buddy, Smith, Smith's girlfriend, Seann William Scott and a teacher thrown off. Larter follows -- because she's got second billing -- and Smith throws a hissy fit until they see the plane become a fireball in mid-air. Sawa rationally concludes that they were all supposed to die, and that Death will soon be tracking them down.

Is he psychic? The movie doesn't seem to care, so why should we?

And here's where we get down to the nitty gritty: Death dispatches pouty starlets and mouth-breathers with a creativity we haven't seen since Jason Voorhees left the cineplex. A groovy variation on the teen-slasher movie, FINAL DESTINATION turns even the most mundane household items into torture devices. Director James Wong has a blast making us second-guess what he'll use to off his characters, and we wouldn't dream of spoiling any of the jolts for you. It's also nice to see a post-SCREAM thriller get laughs not from a more-ironic-than-thou aesthetic, but from horror-movie camp laid on as thick as your grandma's fruitcake. (Seconds after a friend is decapitated, a straight-faced Larter tells Sawa, "Get your head together!")

The DVD extras play like a slumber party, with kooky interactive games helpfully revealing the date of your death (to the hour) and the amount of clairvoyant ability you possess, as well as the story of a real-life psychic! (Cue the "Twilight Zone" theme.) On a more intriguing note, the filmmakers include a documentary about the test-screening process, and how it saved FINAL DESTINATION from being as pretentious as the latest Michelle Pfeiffer snooze-fest. We're all for directors keeping their work pure, but let's get real: no one would mistake FINAL DESTINATION for an art film. It is, however, loads of trashy fun.