DeBessonet’s transitions are clunky and ineffective. Emilio Sosa’s costumes look borrowed, lacking godly luster above (Zeus and Hera are out of a Nativity scene) and classical taste below (mostly leggings and tunics, and an unconvincing toga for Hercules). Chase Brock and Tanisha Scott’s choreography can be bested by most cheer squads. With its towering Doric columns, Dane Laffrey’s set actually inspires some awe, but only when Jeff Croiter’s uneven lighting design makes it visible.
Menken and Zippel’s original songs (“I Won’t Say (I’m in Love),” “The Gospel Truth,” among others) remain undeniable treasures, taking divine cues from gospel, but are blandly arranged by the five people credited with the score’s presentation, which has a blurry sound that may as well come from a backing track. The new material is less exciting, but at least orchestrated with a bit more ingenuity.
The Muses (Tiffany Mann, Anastacia McCleskey, Destinee Rea, Rashidra Scott and the luminous Charity Angél Dawson) mine much-needed melismatic oomph from the material, but, aside from McCalla’s magnetic performance, they stand alone in that regard. The production’s biggest names, Hensley and Iglehart, passively traipse on and offstage.
And as the near-superhuman wonder boy, Gibson’s uneasy stage presence results in stilted line readings and an unconvincing performance. Granted, his role — the title one, mind you — is barely a character here; a written characterization that’s hyper-infantilized even by Disney standards.
The show is also rife with uncaring gaffes — an obviously Gucci-inspired tracksuit Phil wears is as incorrectly Italian as a joke about a local Times New Roman newspaper. Are the Muses, as they insipidly joke, our “literal Greek chorus” and thus the only ones able to break a fourth wall, or are those townspeople and, at one point Meg, also sometimes involving the audience?
