Edgar with Misses DuvalPhoto by Joan Marcus

                                         by Eugene Paul

Nevermore?  Nevermore again, perhaps.  And again.  Poe’s swath is immense. And in this instance with this production once more  bracing New York, twice as long, twice as lavish, twice as odd, twice as fantastical, Nevermore, the Imaginary Life and Mysterious Death of Edgar Allan Poe has returned proudly, ambitiously bizarre, brooding, bouncy, a frippery of a musical based on Poe’s awful life and spiritually nothing to do with him.  It is all smoke and mirrors, all artifice, smashingly put together, empty as a new spittoon, none of the dirt, the pain, the blood, the guts, the tears, the tawdry shame, the heartache of Poe’s real life, nor none of the glory.  But an eyeful, overblown, overweening, so skillfully played by a dedicated cast you almost forget.  Yet how can anyone who’s ever experienced Poe forget?  And there’s the rub.

Fanny and Jock AllanPhoto by Joan Marcus

Jonathan Christenson, artistic director of Edmonton, Canada’s distinguished Catalyst Theatre has brought his bespangled traveling production of his archly musical fantasy to appropriate premises deep under ground at New World Stages, a stagger or two from Broadway. His highly accomplished company, Gaelan Beatty, Shannon Blanchet, Beth Graham, Ryan Parker, Garett Ross, Scott Shpeley, Lindsie Van Winkle deliver a seamlessly produced and directed staging of director-creator-composer Christenson’s  now augmented original operetta.

It has, however, been completely subsumed by the power of the vision behind production designer Bretta Gereke’s counter fantasy, part Tenniel, part Rackham, part Tim Burton, jiggling and twirling with borrowed novelties having nothing to do with Poe, defining the entire production so vividly you hardly realize you are being carried through the entire chronology of Poe’s life from birth to death, but boy, oh, boy, you are aware of costumes, makeup, scenery, movement that stretch your eyeballs.  Which seems to be enough – even more so – for some audience members.  But Poe?  No.

Eliza Poe Photo by Ryan Parker

It is two hundred and six years since Edgar Poe was born, January 19, 1809, to two struggling actors. Papa deserted his family a year later.  Mama died the year after that.  Death and desertion were far from uncommon in early America.  And among actors?  Don’t ask. Little Edgar was handed over to the childless Allan family, never really adopted, pampered early, then  abandoned when young, profligate Edgar turned to drink and gambling. He was clever enough to become Edgar Allan Poe to win back some graces but was soon on his own when his vices became too expensive for foster parent Allan. Edgar decided he could try to live on his earnings from writing.  It was an illusion until he wrote “The Raven”, which became a great, international success. But payment was small and grudgingly forthcoming at that. Nevertheless, he married his thirteen year old cousin. Secretly. Life remained hard for them. Poe took whatever jobs he could get writing, was fired when his work interfered with his drinking. He was finally found delirious in the street, dying, dressed not in his own clothes, mumbling a name no one recognized.  He was forty. No one has ever known what happened.

Countless productions of Poe’s works have appeared, still appear, everything from the giant detective story industry – he invented the detective story – to that strange, tiny theater built around a performance reading of Poe’s poem, “The Bells.” Today there are 18 readings of this poem alone listed on the web, listings and listings of other poems, other readings, performances. Oh, the royalties, oh, the gambling, oh, the drinking he missed out on. Oh, the power of his stories, how they grip us still, generation after generation.

Poe frightens you, horrifies you, moves you with his fancies, his cleverness, his darkness.  Christenson/Gereke amuses you, tickles you, with their fancies, cleverness, brightness. The show could so easily be Evermore, the Imaginary Life and Mysterious Death of Edgar Allan Pooh. It has charm.  Poe does not deal in charm; he mesmerizes. He is a force. Nevermore has no force.

Nevermore. At New World Stages. 340 West 50^th street. Tickets: $75-$95. 212-239-5200. Student rush $30. 2hrs, 15 min.  Open run.