Tony Kushner and Jeanine Tesori's Caroline, or Change is, in every sense of the word, a liberal musical. In both its compassionate depiction of characters
caught in the tide of social change in 1963 Louisiana and in the scope of its ambition, it's a show that rightly believes theatre can not only move
audiences, but deeply alter their perceptions about the world.
As with many very ambitious works of art, it has some flaws.
Imperfections are certainly not missing from Studio Theatre's staging of this
challenging and underrated show (it deserved a much longer run on Broadway than
136 performances), but audiences are nonetheless likely to leave the theatre
with their minds and spirits feeling noticeably stretched. Bolstered by
two stunning lead performances, the production also beautifully showcases one
of the best theatrical scores of the last 25 
years. The show is half
sung-through musical and half opera, with music and lyrics that similarly blend
gospel-inflected, soulful poetry and jangling urban rhythms.
Caroline, or Change is set in New Orleans at the dawn of the Civil Rights movement, or as Caroline Thibodeaux (Julia Nixon) would tell you, underwater
Louisiana. An African-American maid and the divorced mother of four, the sullen Caroline spends much of her time
doing laundry in the steaming basement of Jewish married couple Stuart (Bobby
Smith) and Rose Gellman (played with neurotic energy by Tia Speros, who is
almost Faith Prince's vocal doppelganger). A well-meaning liberal from New York and Stuart's
second wife, Rose is kind but a little oblivious (as evidenced by her inability
to call Caroline anything but "Carolyn").
Caroline--prompted by boredom and frustration to create a kind of commentative
Soul Train of singing appliances--does not earn enough to take her kids to
the dentist despite the Gellman's middle-class status. Rose, puzzled and
guilt-stricken by Caroline's unhappiness, tells the maid that her salary might
be augmented by her 10 year-old stepson Noah (the appealing Max Talisman, whose
vibrato is as pronounced as his character's precocious intelligence). Every time
Noah--who considers Caroline and not the soon-to-be assassinated JFK to be the
president--leaves loose change in his pants pockets, Caroline is entitled to
keep it. The money--both a bond and symbol of the economic forces that
keep Caroline from trusting even young Noah--soon inspires in Caroline an inner
battle between pride and financial need. In addition, Caroline is forced
to deal with the burgeoning activism of her teenage daughter Emmie (Trisha
Jeffrey).
Director Greg Ganakas cleverly involves Debra Booth's utilitarian set
in his staging, which with its (slightly unwieldy) moveable staircase, divides
the parallel socio-economic worlds of the Gellmans into upstairs and
down. However, he can't keep the exposition-laden first act from being
slowly paced and listless at times; the second act is a good deal more
dramatically involving than the first. He also takes too many liberties
with the Greek chorus of The Washing Machine, The Dryer, and The Radio, who
gratuitously wind about the stage and about Caroline; they were less
mobile--and more effective--in the Broadway production, where they functioned
as more of a mental backdrop to Caroline's woes. At first merely standing
behind the appliance, the actor representing The Dryer (thunder-voiced Elmore
James) proceeds to gyrate against the railing of the staircase.
Thankfully, much of the show is directed with more humor, spirit and grace (the
latter embodied by a resplendent Allison Blackwell, as the Moon).
It's in its two lead performances that Caroline best finds a full and vibrant
voice. Nixon gives a harder performance than did Broadway predecessor
Tonya Pinkins. It's flintier and less soulful, as if the bitter
circumstances of Caroline's life have scraped most of the natural
expressiveness from her spirit. For this Caroline, emotional
reserve--coupled with firm pride-- is a barrier against yet more
suffering. When Nixon dances exuberantly to a Christmas carol on the
radio, it seems a little out of character. Yet her performance of "Lot's Wife"--the anguished second act aria in which
Caroline acknowledges the woman she has become--is a scorchingly powerful outpouring
of the character's frustration and self-blame. Nixon's performance--both rich and economical--fleshes out a character that Kushner left half-unrealized
on the page as a symbol of African-American disenfranchisement before the
advent of Civil Rights.
