X Factor

By T.E.Kalem

THE ACT

Music and Lyrics by John Kander and Fred Ebb

Choreography by Ron Lewis Book by George Furth

We love you, Liza!" members of the opehing-night audience at The Act shouted, and that may just prove that love is blind. Liza Minnelli is a cult, and cults, like love, defy reason.

She has been labeled a "superstar," which seems to be part of the mandatory hyperbole of the age. Let's just call her a star, a title she deserves since she has that special X factor of personality that sets stars apart from other top-ranking talents. But as a star whose gifts include singing, dancing and acting, ought she not to be extraordinary or unique in one of those categories? Liza is not.

With the artificial respirator of an abrasively amplified mike, she can belt out a song, but not with the earth-moving gusto of the classic belters. She can torch, but not with the heart-wrought intimacy and conviction of a Piaf, a Billie Holiday or her own mother, Judy Garland. As a dancer, she is adroit and nimble but she does not dazzle -- though her legs do. As for her acting skills, they ex ist mainly in the eyes of her true and devout believers.

However, no cult is a total mystery.

Liza is a tornado of energy, and that has a hypnotic appeal. It sweeps up nearly everyone with its seductive force. When she plays her forte, the waif, her wide dark eyes brim with vulnerability. In moments of stillness, her forlorn, diminutive figure makes a plea for love and assurance that only shattering applause can provide and confirm. And she gets it.

As a show, The Act does not deserve it. The book is dental floss inserted with tedious hygienic monotony so as to clear a space for the next molar crunch of song and dance. It is the tale of Michelle Craig (Minnelli) who became a film star slavishly dependent on her producer-husband, Dan Connors (Barry Nelson), lost him and flopped. She is now trying to re gain her career and born-again self-reliance with a nightclub act in Las Vegas -- which is what The Act is about.

The score by Kander and Ebb is staunchly melodic; professionalism runs in this pair's musical bloodstream. Hollywood, California is a saucy spoof of the West Coast gossip queens, City Lights is a dithyrambic salute to New York, and My Own Space is a pensive, meditative ode to the beauty of possessing one's territorial declarative. Halston's costumes blaze like sun-kindled autumn leaves, and the dance team of three women and four men are, collectively, a card hand of sev en aces. One member of the chorus, Roger Minami, provides ebullient comic relief in Arthur in the Afternoon, a number out lining the rejuvenative virtues of a daily adulterous siesta.

Among those who get just a piece of a piece of a piece of the show, Arnold Soboloff is wry-crisp in the role of a gay com poser and Barry Nelson never throws away a line, even the scrimpiest, that he hasn't impeccably polished. But the play goers are paying to see Liza, and at a rec ord Broadway top price of $25. Someone is gambling mightily that their love will not prove fickle.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so viewer discretion is required.