Shawn Northrip's Lunch--which is playing as part of the inaugural Capital Fringe Festival in DC--is a musical comedy, but as it follows a group of 13 year-old students at Benjamin Franklin Middle School,
it's also quite a melodrama.
The show, which addresses the pandemonium of raging
hormones, the sweet torment of young love, and the not-so-sweet torment of
friendships disturbed by young love, has a certain rawness and vitality. Yet with an unfocused book and too much reliance on stereotype, Lunch's
blemishes--dramatically speaking--call for some Neutrogena.
To his credit, Northrip has successfully channeled the
energy and rebellious spirit of youth with his punk/ska/rock score, and also
deserves plaudits for writing a wholly original
musical (an endangered species in this day and age). Although it would benefit from
a dramaturgical makeover, the show—directed with verve by Shirley Serotsky--is
also a genuine crowd-pleaser.
It's easy to relate to Lunch's
young teens, all of whom are experiencing a time of life as complex as an
origami love note passed in the hallway. The show takes place in the cafeteria of Franklin Middle School, where
Mophead leads his rock band through a number of faintly subversive songs and
encourages the kids to vote for the king and queen of the upcoming "Jungle
Love"-themed dance—which will usher the 8th graders from the zits and jitters
of middle school into the somewhat less perilous (so they think) world of high school. During the course of a school lunch, young
couples fall in various states of like and love, break up, and play matchmaker.
Northrip's book is quite funny, and although his characters
sometimes speak a bit precociously, he manages to evoke the mix of innocence,
vulgarity and pseudo-sophistication of a 13 year-old's speech and
behavior. One girl expresses her shock
that lunch should be anything but social: "I don't eat during lunch, I
mingle." He also captures the kind of
hormonal chaos of those years. As nerdy
Brynn sings of how popular Anton and Kelly are the perfect couple—and compares
them to the timeless lovers of "Dawson's Creek" and other WB shows—Anton pokes at
one of Kelly's breasts, as if it was a sleeping animal in a cage.
While the score isn't extraordinarily accomplished (Mophead's
songs succeed too well at sounding 8th grade-ish), numerous songs
are vibrant with infectious melodies and funny lyrics. The best number, though, is "For Mikey." A bittersweet recollection of a wilted
friendship, it's sung by Ben, who feels abandoned when his best friend begins
spending all his time with his new girlfriend. The scene between Ben and Mikey (who now, per his girlfriend's request, insists on being called Dmitri)
is written with a pungent sincerity and the two characters feel as real as
undoctored yearbook photos.
Yet none of the other characterization compares,
unfortunately. One song—"The
Invocation"—in which four girls tap into the life-changing oracular power of a
MASH game—is part of a scene that comes off as Mean Girls redux. There's an
uptight Mormon, a perky dumb girl, a shallow and spoiled teen princess, and an
awkward and needy girl. The show also has a
popular girl, a nerdy couple, and a generically depressed misfit chick.
The scene with the latter is the most problematic. Teen depression is certainly a serious
reality, but Misty's song "Erase Me"—in which she expresses her desire to be an
erasable drawing of a stick figure—comes out of nowhere. There's no motivation for it, and no clear
transition between this melancholy ballad and the joyous up-tempo that preceded
it. And due to the (rather confusing)
decision to double cast actors for more than a dozen roles, the actress playing
the "ugly" Misty looks exactly the same as she does when she's playing the
attractive Diana (not that anyone ever bought Molly Ringwald or Ally Sheedy as
plain, either).
Yet the show's biggest problem may be in that, with the
exception of the Ben-Dmitri scene, Northrip affords us little opportunity to
care about his characters. No sooner
are we introduced to one set of students than another has replaced them; they
only reappear during the rambunctious finale. Lunch, with its unfocused series of
vignettes, robs the audience of the chance to follow the arcs of a select group
of characters—and mostly, to feel anything for the teens other than amusement
and nostalgic identification.
