The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Or: G-d Help The Outcasts

As its setting is a symphony of stone, as it’s source is a rhapsody of story, so too is the Hunchback of Notre Dame a cathedral of sound. Thirty-eight performers (five principals, seventeen ensemble, and sixteen members from three community choirs, lending their voices on a rotating roster) meld their voices to create a rich, soaring, and above all powerful musical. From the elastic and exacting staffs of Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz (knitted together by Peter Powell’s book) Hunchback is a whole mountain range of song which requires serious skill and a great deal of chutzpa to even attempt to climb it. But director Victoria Bussert has not only managed the ascent but made it (while a little precarious in places) touchingly elegant.

She is able to do this not only through a prismatic set (courtesy of Jeff Herrmann) and neat movement sequence (though many of the monk dances cannot escape silliness, moments like the slow melting from a joyous festival to a field of corpses are well done), but by the power of her cassock clad ensemble. Game not only to wrestle with latin, join with the choir, and fabricate much of the set themselves, the supporting cast (with special commendations to experienced and able Hands like Jodi Dominic, David Anthony Smith, and M.A. Taylor) prove capable of creating fully inhabited but undistracting characters who give substance and life to the world onstage.

For those unfamiliar with Victor Hugo’s novel the story focuses on a brief span of time in Paris, 1482, when the Cathedral of Notre Dame’s bell ringer Quasimodo (Corey Mach) the disabled and isolated nephew-ward of wickedly pious Archdeacon Claude Frollo (Tom Ford) encounters Esmerelda (Keri Rene Fuller) a gypsy entertainer who unwittingly snags his heart, as well as the heart of Captain Phoebus de Martin (Jon Loya), and, more unfortunately, the heart of Frollo himself. This puts a serious crimp in and a considerable pressure to finish the archdeacon's quest to purge all gypsies from the face of the earth (and prevent anyone from having a good time ever). Unfolded to us by the King of Gypsies and master storyteller Clopin Trouillefou (Alex Syiek), the fates of these players are drawn irresistibility by the iron strings of destiny to entanglement and tragedy.

The genius of the stage show (and Bussert’s sure footed path) lies in being able to hold this epic history in a wider world and an unpreachy but quite pointed morality. Esmerelda may be pure of heart, but we can see her persecution by Frollo is just one of many unjust and hateful crimes committed against the Roma (or the Jews, or the Latinxs, or anyone despised for being “foreign”) in the long march of history. Fuller (whose willow-voiced Esmerelda shines with forthrightness and oozes chaste, buttery sanctity) lifts the show from the strong to the sublime with her heartfelt feat of “God Help the Outcasts” and the pooling prayer of “Someday.” Matched against Esmerelda’s Jelkish (def. a noble, gentle soul destined to end badly on the wicked shoals of life) but all too common destiny we see the unique rise and fall and rise again of Quasimodo. At the smashing end of Clopin’s prolog, “The Bells of Notre Dame,” Mach stands before us a straight-backed pillar of strength. With each bell's resounding stroke, and the pounding latin of the glorious choir (and the unseen pressure of years of abuse) beat and crush him to his present crumple. Blessed with the high, vaulting voice of a pop-star Mach swings through his music and trundles through various levels of articulation and impediment (whether he's conversing with his imaginary Saint and Gargoyle friends, charmingly portrayed by the ensemble, or stammering around human beings). However he has a thirst for laughs that, while often endearing, adds a smudge of possessive entitlement that cheapens his character.

Ford, after years of playing musical villains, gives us a hard edged gem of wickedness (even harvesting a healthy crop of boo’s at his curtain call, a high and justly deserved compliment). His Frollo is utterly stone faced, severe and unbending, his gliding motion across the stage oiled by essence of menace. He blends his sonorous and serious voice with articulated thought; his severity melting as he pathetically fries in the fires of his lust or cracking with perfunctory revulsion as he rushes through sharing the sacrament of communion with a thing like Quasimodo. His personal black cloud of dourness approaches the comedic as he lurches from the shadows to share his pious displeasure (and gets much less amusing when split with a sudden bolt of fearful desire). He too is mirrored by Syiek’s Clopin, whose wild, zesty recontouring is a personal touch that draws us closer to these hallowed characters. Syiek juggles a manic glee and majestic flourish in stage managing his little tale, but can stand in naked need too. One particular pang is when the normally jocular King of Gypsies learns of an imminent raid on his camp and breaks into barks of Roma, trying to get his people together and out of danger; before using his dark, crystalline tones to sing of the wish for a home.

It is that wish, that yearning for a more peaceful, understanding humanity, that gives the show’s finale the crowning glory of the evening. The chorus glide on, interlocking their arms and turning their hooded heads to shield from our profane gazes the hunchback’s last act of devotion. Then one chorister (Michelle Pauker), breaks from the ranks and with a pure, glowing aria, and sheds her volumes cassock to reveal a white dress, as has been worn by the young to praise G-d since Christianity’s founding. But then the rest of that beautiful ensemble, spouting their harmony into a final fountain of “Someday,” drop their robes to to reveal blue jeans, polo shirts, tank tops. We’re looking at ourselves. The prayer that the dear Gypsy girl asked for is not yet fulfilled and it’s on us do right by her; to lay aside our assumptions and suspicions and comforting crusts of stone. Clopin steps forward as the crescendo climbs to a towering peak, to riddle us once again: What makes a monster and what makes a man? And there, suddenly, as if by magic or miracle, is Quasimodo, standing tall.