By most metrics, Smash, the erstwhile NBC series about the drama-filled production of a comedic Marilyn Monroe musical, was a failure. The show had high expectations – it was developed and executive-produced by Steven Spielberg, championed by the then-head of NBC, stocked with Broadway pedigree and supported by a robust network TV budget. It boasted a mix of high-wattage screen talent (Debra Messing, Anjelica Huston), new blood (American Idol alum Katharine McPhee) and established stage veterans (Megan Hilty, Christian Borle). And it featured pop music covers and original musical theater tracks, promising what should have been, as one friend loves to put it, Glee for adults.
Yet after initial critical praise following its February 2012 premiere, the show quickly became a laughing stock, an appointment hate-watch for its whiplash tonal shifts, unsympathetic lead characters and bad scarves. It was canceled after just two seasons. But in our post-post-post irony world, time has been kind to the bizarre misfire. In the decade since it last aired, Smash has become a beloved IYKYK cultural artifact, the type of failure whose wild delusion and total lack of sense aged into fine camp.
Now, the metamorphosis is complete: Smash has made it to Broadway, as an actually good musical about the troubled production of a bad musical about one of the most troubled celebrities of all time. With a book by Bob Martin and Rick Elice, this iteration of Smash is, in fact, even more meta than advertised: the very loosely adapted plot seems inspired by the show’s own infamously (to a certain slice of millennial pop culture nerds) troubled production, in which creator/showrunner Theresa Rebeck allegedly over-identified with a character, turning into a professional monster and alienating the crew, all unimpeded by the theater geek network head. (Yes, there was a BuzzFeed exposé.)
Most Broadway viewers won’t know this Russian nesting doll of showbiz drama, nor do they need to. The musical stands on its own as an entertaining, competently made and performed show on the agony and ecstasy of musical theater – this time, with self-awareness. The premise is a tricky balance of ridiculous and sincere: once again, a team of theater diehards are trying to get Bombshell: The Marilyn Monroe Story off the ground, despite the uphill battle that is Broadway financing and any sense of taste; Smash milks plenty of humor out of Bombshell being a failed comedy about a tragedy. The camp is high, the crew serious, including married songwriting duo Terry (John Behlmann) and Tracy (real Smash veteran Krysta Rodriguez); world-weary director Nigel (standout Brooks Ashmanskas); and power producer Anita (Jacqueline B Arnold) and her clueless assistant Scott (Nicholas Matos).
Things are going smoothly – well, as smoothly as things can go when the Cabaret-esque music numbers include songs about flirting with Joe DiMaggio called National Pastime, a treat to us as a joke. (The music is by Marc Shaiman, with lyrics by Shaiman and Scott Wittman). That is, until star Ivy Lynn (Robyn Hurder), an established actor whose celebrity greenlit the show, goes full method and becomes a Marilyn-esque diva, derailing production under the tutelage of svengali acting teacher (Kristine Nielsen) who is two notches of parody too high even for this. Ivy’s disappearance opens up space for two more would-be divas – longtime understudy Karen (Caroline Bowman) and Nigel’s associate Chloe (Bella Coppola), a power singer discounted for backstage role and full figure – “She doesn’t look the part,” as Tracy puts it.
The question of who will play Marilyn is less important than the opportunity it affords for not one but three excellent singers to full belt in sing-for-your-life fashion, against fully stocked sets by Beowulf Boritt; that’s especially true for Coppola, who delivers a rousing rendition of Smash’s signature song, Let Me Be Your Star. And the question of Bombshell’s success is far less important than the opportunity the show within the show allows for razzle-dazzle full chorus numbers that at once celebrate and send up golden-age musical theater.
Martin and Elice have made some updates to the early 2010s setting that prove unnecessary – cracks at influencers drew hearty laughs from the boomer-skewing crowd, but attempts at conveying virality via manufactured posts and projections feel, as usual, cheap and distracting. Suffice to say, today’s Broadway demands online attention, and these thespians are warring for the internet’s love. Like its predecessor, Smash has its bumpy moments, occasionally veering into preening sincerity when silliness works far better. Not all of the musical numbers successfully shoulder the heavy burden of advancing both the Marilyn of Bombshell and the characters of Smash.
But the ones who do, particularly Let Me Be Your Star and the final extra-meta number, provide what Smash has always delivered, to some: fun. Both the haters and the defenders get the last laugh. A real-life musical celebrating willful delusion in the name of Broadway is perhaps the best possible tribute to the Smash of yore, and an enjoyable two-and-a-half hours at the theater for everyone else.
