NEW YORK — Cable TV in the early 1980s had no more hypnotic oddity than “The PTL Club,” otherwise known as “The Jim and Tammy Show,” wherein an oily host and his mascara-loving spouse peddled their prosperity gospel via satellite, telling viewers who craved, say, a new car that Jesus wanted them in the driver’s seat. All they had to do was pray and send Jim and Tammy Bakker a big check.
I remember flipping channels past the Bakkers in lonely hotel rooms, compelled by the contrast they offered to the doom-and-gloom evangelists with whom they shared the upper reaches of the cable numerical system. Jim and Tammy Faye were a lot more fun than Jimmy Swaggart, Pat Robertson, Marvin Gorman and, God knows, Jerry Falwell, all now either fallen or dead or both. Tammy Faye Bakker is dead, too, a truth made clear in the first scene of an internally conflicted new musical that carries her name, even though the felonious hubby who betrayed her with Jessica Hahn (a setup, perhaps) is still very much alive, still hawking dubious products in Jesus’ name.
“Tammy Faye,” which features a score by Elton John, lyrics by Jake Shears and a book by James Graham, comes to Broadway from London, replete with its fabulous original star, Katie Brayben, and director Rupert Goold’s sneering and superficial production, feeling like the work of posh Brits poking fun at the American underclass without much clarity or purpose. At times, this feels like “Enron” with North Carolina substituting for Texas.
On the one hand, “Tammy Faye” wants to poke fun at the three-ring circus that was cable evangelism without worrying that any such satirical show inevitably falls into the trap of punching down, given that the marks of all these hucksters were mostly less-educated Americans. (In some cases, that was true of the preachers themselves, who were just trying to talk a good game and make a buck.) To some degree, watching New Yorkers watch this show is an education in why elite Democrats just lost an election. These are easy targets.
On the other, the show wants to elevate its heroine from the clown car in which she rode, positing her as a kind of Dolly Parton-Princess Diana hybrid, eschewing the homophobia and power agendas of those who surrounded her and embracing a growing gay following that actually saw her as a fun, camp icon more than some kind of sincere leader.
So fully separating Tammy Faye from Jim is a bit of post-facto quarterbacking, frankly. But this is a musical, after all, and it’s certainly true that the grim, sexist men in suits were very threatened by Tammy Faye, who genuinely did good things during the AIDS crisis and who figured out much of the same stuff that would later build the stardom of Oprah “You get a car!” Winfrey, a proponent of the prosperity gospel, redux.
That part of the show, thanks to the honesty and richness of Brayben’s lead performance, is the more interesting one. The more general satirical wash, and it is a tonally constant covering, grows tiresome as the show progresses. “Tammy Faye” feels like it comes from abroad, as indeed it does, because you never believe that any of the creators have any real skin in the game.
Some of the actors, in search of depth, fight against all that, especially Michael Cerveris, whose Falwell comes with a few surprises. But Christian Borle, who plays Jim Bakker, maintains an ironic tone throughout; he’s part in, part out, reflecting the overall tone of the production more than the character.
“Tammy Faye” has its fun moments and, for those of us old enough to remember, it certainly makes its case that the 1980s airwaves got taken over by a bunch of robber barons and hucksters, bilking ordinary folks by playing on their fears. But while John’s score certainly matches that era, it’s hard to find a song that you really can attach to the kind of emotional core that Broadway musicals always need. At the end of the night, you start to realize that the show has created such a garish and unnerving landscape that it is near impossible for any true heroine to emerge.
Maybe that’s a fair description of how all this was in real life. Tammy Faye got as close to saving herself as any lost soul in her position could have managed.
Chris Jones is a Tribune critic.
cjones5@chicagotribune.com
At the Palace Theatre, 160 W. 47th St., New York; tammyfayebway.com