When it was released in 1993, the Bill Murray romantic comedy Groundhog Day was expected to be a minor success, quickly forgotten. It seemed to shock everyone, even Murray himself, by becoming a hit, its title quickly entering the lexicon and becoming synonymous with bland repetition or feeling sick of the daily grind. Of course, like most popular culture that deals with time travel – or, in this case, a closed circuit time loop – the story soon starts flirting with metaphysical conundrums. That furry little bugger who predicts the weather is really leading us into a conceptual black hole.
In adapting the film into musical theatre, director Matthew Warchus and composer and lyricist Tim Minchin have rejoined after their phenomenal accomplishment with Matilda (still one of the great musicals of the 21st century), with original screenwriter Danny Rubin writing the book. While it’s largely successful, easily as funny and also considerably darker than its cinematic antecedent, it isn’t an unmitigated triumph. It’s certainly not a patch on Matilda.
Perhaps it’s unfair to compare them. Matilda is an almost unbearably moving story of resilience and courage in a young child, and Groundhog Day is about an arsehole learning to be slightly less of one.
Phil Connors (Andy Karl) is a grossly egotistical narcissist weatherman who is called to cover the quirky holiday of Groundhog Day in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. It’s his fourth year in a row slumming it with the yokels, as he’d have it. But when he finds himself living the same day over and over, he has to discover a way of changing his perspective – on small town life, on his producer Rita (Elise McCann), and especially on himself.
One of the central dramatic challenges in adapting the story for the stage is how to utilise repetition without it becoming merely repetitive. The genius of Minchin’s music lies in its ability to take a theme and recontextualise it, filtering it through different musical genres and thereby altering its emotional effect. And when we do see the same actions again and again, the outcome is often startlingly comic – the simple act of Phil waking up in bed, for example, becomes a series of theatrical coups de theatre, increasingly funny for their recurrence.
For all its wit and cleverness, though, the show is only ever intermittently moving and, then, only in the second act and only on its periphery. While it’s certainly funny watching Phil realise that his predicament means he can live without consequence – a descent into drugs and liquor without the inconvenience of hangovers is particularly amusing – it keeps the stakes low and the emotional register on simmer. Phil is an all-consuming character, impossible to root for and psychologically inert. He might reform but we are never sure why we should care.
This is by no means Karl’s fault. He originated the role in London and subsequently on Broadway, and he’s magnificent. There is a blocky rigidity to his frame but then he has a malleability and suppleness more suited to a Muppet than a man. His cynicism neatly cuts through the gee-whizzery of the townsfolk and he has a great line in weary acceptance as his days stretch into endlessness. His transformation into a man of decency and integrity is precisely calibrated, even if we see it coming a mile off.
The rest of the cast are great, too. McCann provides a strong foil to Karl, earnest and yet direct. If some of her songs wouldn’t pass the Bechdel test – despite protestations to the contrary, she spends all her time talking about, singing about and yearning for a man – they are plaintive and sweet. Ashleigh Rubenach makes an impression in her solo song as Nancy and Tim Wright is excellent as Ned Ryerson, turning the compliant nerd role on its head with a tilt into grief and resignation worthy of Sondheim. The ensemble is something of an embarrassment of riches, with the likes of Kate Cole and Alison Whyte in under-utilised minor roles.
Technically, the production is a mini-wonder, leaning into its theatricality with glee. Rob Howell’s sets and costumes are delicious, the twinkling miniatures – warmly lit by Hugh Vanstone – suggestive of a rural fairytale. Lizzi Gee’s choreography is sharp and lively and Paul Kieve’s illusions ingenious. Warchus has basically imported the entire team that brought us not only Matilda but the recent A Christmas Carol and it shows.
And yet, for all its smarts, Groundhog Day left me a little cold. While Minchin manages to smuggle in some choice criticisms of quackery in the song Stuck, and flirts with a little philosophy in If I Had My Time Again, the piece never really engages with the metaphysical horror lying just under the surface of the material. Its trajectory is never in doubt, which makes Phil’s transformation feel simply predictable where it needs to feel inevitable. It’s fun, but, while I’d see Matilda again and again, this musical is – perhaps ironically – something you only need to experience once.
Groundhog Day is on at Princess Theatre, Melbourne, until 7 April 2024
