I spent the two hours after leaving Honeyland thinking about how it could be rewritten into a passable show. It was a frustrating task. What should one do with a musical whose surface goes no deeper than a 1960s Wikipedia page?
The show, which transferred to Off-Broadway’s Triad Theater from an original run in Australia, follows four young people coming of age in the decade of the Vietnam War, second-wave feminism, and nuclear disarmament. Of the four, one, Mike (Ben James Tyrrell), died in Vietnam, and the three reunite and recount their pasts together. To say anything more about the plot – to describe their relationships, or any of the four’s desires, or even to claim anything else happens – would be giving too much credit to the writing by director Denny Lawrence and producer Clarry Evans. Between the frustratingly empty characters and superficial issues, there just isn’t much to say.
This fault lies mostly in our four protagonists, whose existences are so flat it’s nearly baffling. Mike is the only one remotely compelling, which is entirely based on the fact that he’s The One Who Died. Helen (Anika Buchanan) gets some sort of development when she is placed in a lazy love triangle between him and writer Tom (Jacob Higdon), but we see so little of these relationships that it’s hard to empathize with this purported love. Most mystifying of all, however, is Fran, the odd woman out in their four-person group. She is not given a single piece of characterization or even the roughest intimations of a desire. She is vaguely an activist, like the rest of them, but beyond that, she’s a body on the stage, who clumsily narrates sections of her friends’ lives. We do know that Fran and Helen met at a N.O.W. rally, a remark that prompts activist Tom to awkwardly ask ‘N.O.W.? What’s that?’
Honeyland wants badly to be a musical that paints a comprehensive political portrait of the 1960s, but instead comes across as more of a bingo board for the decade’s greatest hits. A strange song about marijuana, (“smoking dope/is so fine”) which checks a proverbial box of the generation, is forgotten as soon as it’s sung. There are no reactions or positions on the war in Vietnam, but rather an apathetic wave to footage of Nixon in a place where plot could have been added. Even worse, though, is when Honeyland actually tries to delve into issues. “I’m a 1960s girl,” a song shared between Helen and Fran, is filled with superficial reflections on femininity rivaled only by Fran’s empty platitudes (“we women give each other strength”) in their shallowness. Helen tells Mike that she doesn’t want to be anyone’s wife, but it takes shockingly little for her to abandon these values and get married anyway. The show never investigates why.
In lackluster moments like these, what little Lawrence and Evans have to say is lost amid the clumsy dialogue. “I really loved you, y’know” says Tom at the top of the show, half-heartedly introducing the idea that he and Helen have had a relationship. This issue continues, as we are delivered stunted lines about Mike’s passion for the theater or Helen’s love for Tom without ever seeing evidence ourselves. ‘Show, don’t tell,’ is an outdated criticism, and yet it seems to be one that the Honeyland team needs to hear.
The same carelessness infects the lyrics, which run the cliche gambit from “I want to be free/ free to be me” to “ I thought he wanted to make me his wife/be together for the rest of our life.” While the songs add to the show (because, without them, there would not be enough material for the plot to stand on its own), rarely do they speak to the characters’ emotional imperative. There appears to be no reason, for example, for one of the show’s first numbers, “You Can’t Take the Boston Out of the Boy” – Boston is never important enough to the plot to justify this – or, even more bafflingly, Mike’s “Adios, Mi Senorita,” ostensibly the result of a fling with a Mexican woman. This in no way affects him and has zero consequence on what little plot there is. It’s exasperating to remember the amount of time that this show wastes, especially when you think of how much they could have done in its place.
If anything can be said for Honeyland, however, it’s that it provides a strong showcase for a slate of talented young performers. Buchanan stands out for her clear soprano, bringing life to what little character Helen has. Tyrrell as Mike, too, sells the sometimes hokey lyrics through his acting, especially sincere in the few Vietnam scenes. Even though stage space at The Triad Theater is limited, the four are charming in Michelle Lemon’s choreography, dancing around the space sweetly. One doesn’t doubt that given better material, all four actors will shine.
Unfortunately, their glimmer is not enough to rescue the show. Honeyland does not seem to know why it is a piece of theater, or why it exists at all. It has no reason to. The three remaining friends end the musical with an empty and unearned song about dreams for the future, and Fran naively hopes that they “made a difference.” They didn’t: all of these paper-thin characters will fade into obscurity after the curtain closes, just like Honeyland itself.
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