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Dallas Morning News
By LAWSON TAITTE / Theater Critic
During the opening scenes of Valley of the Dolls, the audience
laughs at the oddest places – even during scene changes.
If you aren't a fan of the campy 1967 film adaptation of Jacqueline
Susann's best-selling novel, you might find yourself feeling
left out by this attempt to replicate it onstage.
Gradually, however, the show builds up its own comic momentum.
You can relax and be part of the club. And then, a little
into the second act, the strangest thing happens. Instead
of laughing at the characters' emotional upheavals and the
way the actors are portraying them, you start caring about
these people.
As somebody might have remarked back in the day – far
out.
Uptown Players gave Bob Hess and Doug Miller's new stage
version of the novel and movie its world premiere on Friday.
The two writer-directors have assembled an enormously talented
cast, stuffed with an array of the most improbable actors.
They and their designers have used every bit of artifice and
energy to put us back into the 1960s for two and a half hours.
There are moments when you wonder if it was worth all the
effort. But as it proceeds, this Valley of the Dolls provides
lots of rewards. It follows three young women as they struggle
to make it in the glamorous worlds of show biz and modeling.
Anne, the aristocratic one (Lynn Blackburn), starts out as
a stenographer and becomes a model. Keely (Patty Breckenridge)
sings her way to stardom but becomes addicted to pills. Jennifer
(Cara Statham Serber) knows she doesn't have talent; she gets
ahead by taking her clothes off.
Most of the fun in the first half comes from the show's cinematic
flow and its breezy evocation of a bygone era. This section
is virtually a musical, as Natalie King floats through the
action singing the title song from the movie. The singing
of Ms. Breckenridge, one of the city's best musical-theater
performers, makes us believe her character's fast rise to
the top. Susan Mansur, who created roles in the New York productions
of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas and Ruthless , makes
a fabulous Dallas debut as the veteran musical star, Helen
Lawson, Keely's nemesis.
I think I actually like it better when the actors throw themselves
completely into the story later on. Ms. Serber treads a delicate
line between parody and reality at first; by the end, she's
a tragic heroine. Joe Nemmers can speak the most outrageous
lines with utter conviction, and the final confrontations
between good and evil come off compellingly.
You won't be disappointed if you go to Valley of the Dolls
looking for some laughs. But you may surprise yourself by
reaching for a hanky before the evening is out.
By Glenn Arbery
Senior Editor
There’s no point hiding it: I didn’t do my homework
for Uptown Players’ production of Valley of the Dolls.
That would have entailed watching the 1967 movie version taken
from Jacqueline Susann’ s novel, and starring Patty
Duke, Sharon Tate, and Barbara Parkins.
Courtesy photo
Anne Welles (Lynn Blackburn) falls for theatrical agent Lyon
Burke (Joe Nemmers) in Uptown Players’ adaptation of
Valley of the Dolls.
Apparently, the film takes Susann’ s outrageously bad
novel very seriously. Uptown Players’ version, needless
to say, doesn’t take it seriously at all. For the most
part, it’s hilarity pure and simple, and up to intermission,
this production needs no conceivable excuse — except
perhaps for some of the patrons’ excessive laughter.
Watching Lynn Blackburn strike arch poses as Anne Welles,
fresh from Radcliffe and determined to succeed in Manhattan,
makes it clear again that she’s one of the best comic
actresses in the city.
Add to that Patti Breckenridge’s knowing performance
as the up-and-coming singer Neely O’Hara and Cara Statham
Serber’s gently ditzy Jennifer North, and for pure talent,
it’s the strongest production in Dallas this year.
That’s not even mentioning Joe Nemmers as Lyon Burke,
John Venable in two almost opposite roles, Rick Starkweather
as the nightclub singer Tony Polar, Marisa Diotalevi as Tony’s
tormented sister, and Susan Mansur as Broadway legend Helen
Lawson. When you can use actresses as talented as Allison
Tolman and Lulu Ward for the ensemble, you’re talking
about wealth.
In the story, Anne, Neely, and Jennifer are close friends
when they first arrive in Manhattan (though their early friendship
needs more exposition). Their careers take off in different
directions.
Anne has an affair with the theatrical agent Lyon, who is
not the marrying kind. As he puts it (with Joe Nemmers’
earnest, tongue-in-cheek delivery), he “doesn’t
pull well in double harness.” Heartbroken, Anne has
to strike out on her own, but she’s almost immediately
offered a job as the glamorous face of a cosmetics line.
Neely O’Hara begins her career after being bumped from
a Broadway show by the envious star Helen Lawson because she
has too much talent. That very night, though, she sings on
Hullabaloo (which some of us actually remember), and quickly
rises to stardom. Married at first to the unassuming Mel (John
Venable), she increasingly yields to heartless ambition. She’s
the first to begin using the eponymous “dolls”
(downers) that become a theme of the play.
Jennifer North, for her part, is simply a sexpot with no
talent, as she freely admits. (Just listening to Cara Serber
answer the telephone with a mild, almost timid, “Hello?”
cracks up the audience.) The suave Tony Polar likes her, much
to the mysterious chagrin of his sister Miriam (Marisa Diotalevi).
In the second half, as the plot turns toward soap opera bathos,
it becomes harder to laugh. Neely O’ Hara, hopelessly
addicted now, hits bottom on skid row, but her reform in a
sanatorium doesn’t dull her ambition whatsoever. She
comes out ready to seduce Anne’s beloved Lyon. Meanwhile,
after a successful career in French “art films”
to help support the ailing Tony, Jennifer develops —
what else? — breast cancer, and opts for the dolls.
What’s the effect supposed to be? A stifled, knuckle-biting
sob, offset by nervous laughter?
Every now and then, a leitmotif established in the first
part comes back in the second part to give us a comic cue.
For example, a haughty waiter crosses the room and, as someone
calls him, pronounces, “I am not a waiter.” Or
somebody mentions Neely O’ Hara and the response is,
“Neely? Really?”
This is a production full of invention and expertise: an
endlessly adaptable set and swift, complex scene changes,
not to mention excellent singing throughout. Both its performances
and its technical dimensions will almost certainly win it
awards.
Yet it’s a weird, disconcerting emotional world one
enters here, as though the catharsis were most of all aimed
at a certain brand of unseemly self-pity. A little camp is
more than enough.
By Arnold Wayne Jones Staff Writer
Aug 23, 2007, 15:39 Email this article
Hunks! Harridans! Costume changes! Look for many peaks
in this ‘Valley’
SPARKLE, NEELY, SPARKLE!: Anne Welles (Lynn Blackburn) tries
to deal with alcoholic pill-popper Neely O’Hara (Patty
Breckenridge) in ‘Valley of the Dolls.” (MIKE
MORGAN)
“That’s not writing, that’s typing,”
hissed Truman Capote when asked to comment on novelist Jacqueline
Susann’s talent.
He had a point. Blowsy, outrageous and wickedly cynical all
describe Susann’s style, both personal and artistic.
Her signature roman a clef, “Valley of the Dolls,”
was a shrill raspberry targeted at petulant celebrities, from
Broadway babies to hollow Hollywood models, and zinged the
corrupting effects of a society of sycophants.
The book was a huge hit. A year later, the film version (which
Susann herself hated), while a box-office success, took such
a critical drubbing that its stars — Barbara Parkins,
Sharon Tate and Patty Duke — never fully recovered.
Parkins never had another leading role in a studio feature.
Duke, an Oscar winner in her teens, became queen of the made-for-TV
movie. And Tate became better remembered by history when,
18 months later, she was murdered by the Manson Family.
They all deserved the opprobrium. The film’s director,
Mark Robson, cobbled together the most despicable of trash-wallows,
pregnant with corny dialogue, hammy acting (or, in Tate’s
case, no acting at all) and distasteful subject matter presented
as luridly as the era permitted.
So naturally, gay men love it. “Valley of the Dolls”
is iconic pure camp — delectably, incalculably awful,
but naively so. Its aspirations for grandeur only magnify
its ineptness.
The little bit of sorcery that writers-directors Bob Hess
and Doug Miller have accomplished with their stage adaptation
of Valley of the Dolls, presented by Uptown Players at the
KD Studio Theatre, is to maintain that naivete without ever
winking at the audience. They have reproduced the spirit of
the film, not parodied it. If you didn’t know better,
you might swear the script came straight from 1967.
Three basic storylines intersect at odd angles, and the plot
often becomes unruly. Anne Welles (Lynn Blackburn) is the
beautiful career girl romanced by a high-powered agent-cum-writer
Lyon Burke (Joe Nemmers).
Lyon represents young starlet Neely O’Hara (Patty Breckenridge),
molding her into the Hot New Thing. As Neely becomes addicted
to pills, gaining a reputation as difficult and alienating
her friends, she slowly transforms into her old nemesis Helen
Lawson (Susan Mansur).
Neely and Anne both befriend Jennifer North (Cara Statham-Serber),
a contract player who resorts to soft-core porn to pay the
bills.
The best lines are the ones that don’t work. “Ah
… barely pink,” Lyon waxes when he sees Anne’s
lipstick shade in an early scene. Near the end, he notes her
new color: “Forever crimson.” It’s such
a clunky metaphor, spoken (beautifully so) by Nemmers with
a flat, awkward affect that it gets laughs for no particular
reason. (That happens a lot.)
The set is a series of pastel-colored squares that look like
a cross between the back of some other set and the “Laugh-In”
doors (I kept hoping Goldie Hawn would pop out at the end
and shoot a straight-line to Ruth Buzzi). And there are more
costume changes than a Cher concert, each period outfit better
than the last.
The performances sell the show — the acting is almost
lifelike. I mean that in the best possible way. It’s
not easy to move like mannequins and not grate on an audience.
Breckenridge, all desperate “clang-clang-clang went
the trolley” excess, goes from ingenue to voracious
bitch at mach 3. She’s matched only by Mansur, whose
brassy, deliciously bombastic turn is an example of gourmet
scenery chewing. Her best line, “Life is just one big
whore who always needs another daiquiri,” nearly turned
me blue.
Blackburn’s entire performance is twisting her lips
in displeasure and furtive glances with her dewy cow eyes.
Serber isn’t playing Jennifer; she’s playing Tate,
an actress with less range than a typical Bond girl. “I
know I’m not Inger Stevens,” she admits. She’s
impeccably empty.
The workhorse of the cast is Elias Taylorson, who plays a
diversity of parts from a hairy-chested-and-tight-pants-wearing
Tom Jones to a dumpy barfly in a wife-beater with equal skill.
The play is far from perfect. About 45 minutes in, the pacing
slows to snail-crawl before picking up again, too few laughs
are exploited in Act 2 and the show feels about 15 minutes
too long; scene changes are uneven.
And yet I would never suggest cutting many of the throwaway
gags: The recreation of the cheesy variety show “Hullabaloo;”
the Grammy telecast video; the musical numbers tossed in like
palate-cleaners for the schmaltz. Maybe, like the book and
the movie before it, its weaknesses are its strengths. This
“Valley” has many peaks.
By Elaine Liner
Published: August 23, 2007
'60s camp, Valley of the Dolls You've got to climb to the
top of Mount Everest to reach the Valley of the Dolls. That's
the opener of Jacqueline Susann's crapgasmic 1966 novel, and
the first words spoken in a new Valley of the Dolls theatrical
adaptation now running at Uptown Players.
Transporting this immortal phrase from page to stage required
two dedicated sherpas. Dallas theater veterans Doug Miller
and Bob Hess, both Dolls fanatics, were granted the rights
to adapt the novel by Susann's heir, a niece who lives in
Fort Worth (Susann died of cancer in 1974). Miller and Hess
spent a year working on their version, which also incorporates
the ear-flattening musical score by composer Andre Previn
and his then-wife, lyricist Dory Previn. (If you've never
suffered through the big number, "I'll Plant My Own Tree,"
be assured that it deserves its status as the worst song ever
written for, or sung in, a big-budget Hollywood movie.)
Not aiming for the pinnacle of playwriting with their adaptation,
Miller and Hess have climbed no higher than base camp with
Dolls. Part high-fashion pharm party ("dolls" being
Susann's slang term for prescription drugs), part loving homage
to the wonderful/awful writing in the book (on the first page,
Susann described Manhattan as "an angry concrete animal")
and part kitschy send-up of the styles and mores of the 1960s,
their show is kicky, kooky fun with a freakishly good cast.
It's also part and parcel, not so much of the novel, but of
Dolls' howler of a screenplay.
And that's where Uptown's production stumbles on its way
to the valley. As an almost scene-by-scene re-creation of
the film, the live show gets bottled up and bogged down with
cumbersome scene changes, uneven pacing and a parade of supporting
characters. With a cast of 20 crowding the shallow stage at
the KD Studio Theatre, half of them playing multiple roles
(and really well too), it starts to look like Grand Central
Station at rush hour. It's all a beautifully costumed, exquisitely
coiffed, lavishly eyelashed madhouse, which on opening night
ran almost 40 minutes longer than the two-hour movie it's
heavily borrowed from.
And what a movie it was. To review for the uninitiated, Valley
of the Dolls began in 1966 when the author, a failed TV actress
with a flair for self-promotion and a wardrobe of what critic
Rex Reed once called "banana-split nightmares,"
scored big with her first work of fiction, a sexed-up potboiler
about three ingénues navigating the worlds of high
fashion, pop music and porn by way of the prescription counter.
The book was, at the time, the fastest-selling work of fiction
in publishing history.
The film came out in 1967 starring Oscar winner Patty Duke
as Judy Garland-like singer and dope fiend Neely O'Hara; Barbara
Parkins, the brunet bitch-goddess of that year's hit TV soap
Peyton Place, as virgin-gone-bad Anne Welles; and Sharon Tate,
a blond Beverly Hillbillies bit player and soon-to-be Mrs.
Roman Polanski, as mammarily gifted skin flick siren Jennifer
North.
Not surprisingly, Valley of the Dolls was a box office mega-hit
despite its being an over-acted, overdressed piece of dreck.
In a year when Hollywood also released artistic gems such
as Bonnie & Clyde, The Graduate and In the Heat of the
Night, Dolls was the trash wallow everybody saw but nobody
would admit to having seen (just like nobody but horny schoolgirls
owned up to buying or reading the book).
Dolls, the movie, came and went. Years passed. Hairdos changed.
The book went out of print. Patty Duke did TV, went bonkers
for a while and started playing grandmothers in movies of
the week. Barbara Parkins made a few minor films and disappeared
from view. Beautiful Sharon Tate, nominated for the Golden
Globes' Most Promising Newcomer of 1967, was murdered by the
Manson family in the summer of '69. Susann died having outlined
but not written a Dolls sequel.
Then with the rise of cable and video in the 1980s, the unexpected
happened. Valley of the Dolls was reborn as a small-screen
cult classic. From trashy disaster to treasured work of low
art, Dolls found a permanent home in gay culture. Quoting
lines from the film—"Sparkle, Neely, sparkle!"
and "You know how bitchy fags can be!"—started
serving as proof of poofta-tude. There was a TV miniseries
remake in 1981. Live theatrical Dolls started popping up on
the coasts, notably a 1996 production at Greenwich Village's
Circle in the Square Downtown that a New York Times critic
dubbed "entertainment for the easily pleased." A
new edition of the book was published in 1997. Dolls made
a comeback and stayed.
And so we come to Uptown, where the gays like to see the
plays, and the "regional debut" of Miller and Hess'
likable, almost lovable, mess. Sure, there's too much of everything
in their show, but that extravagance seems unavoidable, given
the source material. There are scads of period costumes and
'60s-style wigs, all found, made or styled to perfection by
designers Coy Covington and Suzi Shankle. There's a Hullaballoo
scene choreographed by Paula Morelan with a half-dozen pony
dancers in go-go boots.
Media designer Chris Robinson has shot original video sequences—Anne
doing a fashion shoot as "The Gillian Girl," Neely
at the Grammys, Jennifer in one of her French "nudie"
flicks (dig actor Gary Floyd nearly naked in his onscreen
cameo). They've put in musical interludes by singer Natalie
King, doing Dionne Warwick doing the Previns' syrupy, grammatically
godawful movie theme song ("gotta get off, gonna get,
have to get offa this ride..."). It's exhausting.
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