That’s not to say the show has to imitate its celluloid source. It’s just that the musical feels almost devoid of real energy or emotion. After a while, it’s hard to care about the fat guy with body-image issues or the divorced dad fighting to keep custody of his son when their stories are constantly interrupted by penis jokes, sight gags and songs stuffed with ridiculous pop-culture references. This is certainly the first time in Broadway history that a show has sung the praises of Prada, Tom Cruise and Geritol simultaneously. At times, “The Full Monty” feels self-conscious about its broad sensibility. The musical actually explores, in ways the film doesn’t, how feminism undercuts the men’s self-worth. It also openly celebrates the gay relationship that develops between two of the guys. But these moments of conscience are a lot like the men’s red leather thongs: loosely attached and quickly thrown away.
In fact, other than the tireless performers, just about all of “The Full Monty” is disposable. The Technicolor sets are chintzy. Jerry Mitchell’s choreography–in a show about dancing–is surprisingly negligible. David Yazbek, a pop-music writer and Broadway rookie, hasn’t come up with one notable tune, except perhaps “Big-Ass Rock,” a darkly comic ode to assisted suicide that’s memorable for the wrong reasons. And what was book writer Terrence McNally thinking? Hard to believe that the Tony-winning author of “Master Class” and “Ragtime” came up with this crude knockoff–and in the same month he debuted the libretto for an opera version of “Dead Man Walking.” Ironic, isn’t it? The death-penalty opera is a hit, while “The Full Monty” is just plain deadly.
