“Ragtime” at the Vivian Beaumont Theater (Photo: Matthew Murphy)
It remains the best musical about America. Within its sweeping scope, Ragtime puts disparate, often opposing viewpoints in direct confrontation, pushing forward at the dawn of a new Millennium. Its characters are fighting – outwardly, for justice and security, inwardly, for personal strength and happiness. It’s an ecstatic, gutwrenching, and timely masterpiece by three writers at a pinnacle of their careers. Now in its second Broadway revival at Lincoln Center’s Vivian Beaumont Theater, Ragtime is still as pulse-pounding and current as it’s ever been.
Most of that is thanks to the absolute knockout nature of its writing. The book by Terrence McNally faithfully adapts E.L. Doctorow’s melting pot novel, giving equal shrift to its three central characters. Stephen Flaherty’s music is unafraid to go big and the sheer power of his melodies and repeated motifs rumble inside the show’s emotional core. Lynn Ahrens’ lyrics give every character their own means of externalizing their inner selves. Her words seamlessly evoke the vernacular of each of the three orbiting groups without merely giving the same voice to them all.
Director Lear deBessonet understands, and respects, that the writing must be central to this production’s success. Too many revivals become opportunities for revisions, permitting the writers to tinker with things that don’t need adjusting. Thankfully, Ahrens, Flaherty, and McNally’s estate have left things as they are and deBessonet’s production presents their stunning achievement in nearly barebones fashion.
On the one hand, it’s great to be able to zero in on every word and every note, but on the other, the Beaumont screams to be filled. David Korins’ set is a bare stage with a turntable, some rising trap doors, and pieces of rolling furniture. We’re far from the huge eye-popping sets of Lincoln Center revivals past. deBessonet keeps the staging mostly within the thrust portion of the stage, jutting out into the audience, offering intimacy and an immediate connection with the characters. But the cavernous stage behind them is empty, without the same intentionality of blank space as last spring’s Floyd Collins revival. As great as Linda Cho’s costumes and Adam Honoré’s lighting look, the lack of a set makes it feel incomplete.
Which is not to say we need an actual house. Korins’ most effective moment is a vast, abstract piece of fabric that represents the clouds after a storm and then morphs into an American flag. It’s the only time the stage feels full and is a simple, practical piece of design. If more of these abstract ideas had made their way into the production, we might not have needed what is the production’s greatest sin.
An enormous LED screen blasts from the back wall of the theatre with projections by 59 Studio. If anything is anathema to the spirit of Ragtime, of hardscrabble immigrants and Harlem musicians at the turn of the 20th century, it’s an LED screen. It’s glaring and out of touch with the period. It becomes distracting – what’s the LED screen doing now? Even when Korins tries to mask it with several layers of gauzy drops, it’s still back there, an eyesore.
But, again, it’s Ragtime, and even that LED screen barely puts a dent in the show’s soaring power. deBessonet has assembled an impeccable cast, led by the astonishing Joshua Henry. Not since Aaron Tveit was the sole nominee has the Leading Actor in a Musical Tony Award been so definitely decided before the ceremony. Henry sings with such unbelievable passion it seems like he’s going to explode out of his costume. Coalhouse is a challenging role, turning abruptly from romantic leading man to something more complex, and Henry navigates that turn and takes the audience with him. “We’re all Coalhouse,” his cohort tells him, and we all second that.
Nichelle Lewis, as Sarah, equips herself well standing next to him. In the shadow of Henry’s supersonic energy, Lewis finds a way to make Sarah’s insecurity, her naïveté, and her desperation just as powerful. She gives Sarah a hunched, ashamed physicality, bearing the weight of the decisions she’s made, and then, just by standing up straight, you can see the world of difference Coalhouse’s attention makes to her.
Most of the cast has made the leap from deBessonet’s 2024 concert production at New York City Center, but each of them has found newer and deeper wells of feeling in their roles. Brandon Uranowitz brings a sparkling humor to Tateh. His magnetism is undeniable, which makes the trials he faces even more heartbreaking. Shaina Taub delivers Emma Goldman’s laser-focused commitment to her cause while also showing us she’s still a human being. Ben Levi Ross is so rich in voice you can pick him out of even the most dense ensemble singing. He becomes, in a way, the audience’s avatar, verbalizing our outside need to see Coalhouse given what is owed him.
Some aspects of the production do still bear the feel of its concert staging, though. Jacob Keith Watson plays Willie Conklin, the racist fireman who leads the destruction of Coalhouse’s car, but also plays Harry Thaw, Evelyn Nesbit’s murderous husband, and also appears in the ensemble, singing and dancing. It’s jarring to see the vile Conklin begging for sanctuary and then, minutes later, watching Watson perform a comedic baseball number. Don’t get me wrong – Watson is fantastic at everything he is asked to do, but maybe he shouldn’t have been in every scene to maintain the dramatic through-line of Conklin’s actions.
At City Center, the crucial Model T Ford that incites the action was represented by some wheels and a flat windshield piece that was flown in. Here, there is a car, but deBessonet makes the same mystifying decision she made there: the car is offstage during “Wheels of a Dream”. Coalhouse and Sarah’s anthem uses the car as a metaphor for the solidification of their family unit and their son’s future, which is then upended by Conklin’s trashing of the car and thus the end of Coalhouse and Sarah’s vision of a happy life. Sarah even has a line at the beginning of the scene indicating that the car should be there. We need to see it to connect their dream of a happy life to the car itself. Sure, we still get the point, but if we’re going to see the car get trashed, we should also see it get bestowed with the “promise of happiness” they sing about.
It’s amazing, though, to hear this score so thunderously performed by the talented company, James Moore’s excellent orchestra, and Kai Harada’s crystal clear sound design. It’s also amazing – and chilling – how relevant some of the show’s themes still are. Look at the pain on Allison Blackwell’s face when she rips into “Till We Reach That Day” at the end of the first act. She’s not just singing about Sarah’s death.
I was particularly struck by the confrontation between Father and Younger Brother after Coalhouse has burned a firehouse and shot three men. Father has gone to the police to tell them his family has Coalhouse’s baby, and Father appears in the living room with a gun, “protecting [his] family.” Younger Brother is aghast and cannot believe that Father does not acknowledge the litany of abuses the world has inflicted on Coalhouse, denying him justice for the trashing of his car and Sarah’s murder. “Nothing under heaven can excuse the killing of men and the destruction of property,” Father tells him. Younger Brother responds, “I did not hear such a eulogy at Sarah’s funeral. I did not hear you say then that death and the destruction of property were inexcusable.”
In that acknowledgment of Father’s bias, I heard an echo of the arguments about the death of Charlie Kirk last month. Someone who called, openly, for the widespread use of guns was shot dead, openly, in public and suddenly the rhetoric shifted. Incredible, isn’t it, that a novel from the seventies adapted into a nineties musical can still strike the moment with such hot force.