My young charge remarked, after the first 20 minutes of "Little House on the Prairie," that she felt she was watching "Waiting for Guffman." Her sassy candor said aloud what Midwestern reserve normally would censor. For indeed, "Little House," which had its world premiere Friday at the Guthrie Theater, kicks up a whiff of "Guffman's" hokey historical pageantry ("There's land out west!") and it becomes a quaint throwback of instant nostalgia.
The musical hits its target in the slightly above-average midsection of America. Breezes of "Oklahoma!" and John Ford westerns sweep across a scenic landscape by Adrianne Lobel. Rachel Portman's celebratory score and Rachel Sheinkin's middling script salute pioneers who turned prairie dirt into amber waves of grain.
The creative team has tricked out its proclamation with familiar types: grinning settlers who sweep women off their feet with big hugs; buggy races and July 4th firecrackers followed by the town burgher's call to "Circle round for the square dance!" Yee ha! Freezing winter and catastrophic fire sap the spirit, but a happy outcome is never seriously threatened. Among the crises is whether Laura should use her teaching money to buy a new dress or give it all to Pa Ingalls. Spoiler alert: She gets the dress.
If Zambello and company hope to push this work beyond its purple-sky pageantry (and who's to say they want to?), the germ of a substantive human story exists between Laura (Kara Lindsay) and sister Mary (Jenn Gambatese). Laura, a wild tomboy who incites revolution at school, is transformed when Mary loses her sight to scarlet fever. She takes on Mary's dream of becoming a teacher and in the musical's money moment, Lindsay and Gambatese sing "I'll Be Your Eyes," a gorgeous duet that hits on every level.
But ultimately, their relationship is only part of Laura's story. Lindsay is lively and likable as her character grows into a woman who marries Almanzo Wilder (Kevin Massey, whose soft, good looks can't convince us he's a dirt farmer and horseman).
Sheinkin's book conflates episodes in the famous books (no crime there), skews slightly wooden ("Come, I'll show you where to fetch water") and turns Charles Ingalls -- he of almost incurable wanderlust -- introspective on occasion (maybe we were wrong to kill the buffalo and drive the Indians off).
Portman's score has the broad strokes of Copland with its fiddles and hoedowns, and tries to corral a nod to the West with rhythms driven by tom-toms. The melodies, however, are pure Disney.
And what of Melissa Gilbert? Her singing voice is not first-class, but the music is kind and it never becomes an issue. She acquits herself absolutely fine, but the fact is, Ma Ingalls does not carry the weight of this show. More significant are Steve Blanchard's broad shoulders and solid jaw. He's the perfect vehicle to express Charles Ingalls' pioneer quest. "The Prairie Moves" is a big, brawny anthem to the land that leaves him standing down stage, chest out, like John Wayne.
And that's the universe Zambello and company have in mind, a space limited by nothing more than sky and land -- an exuberant shout-out for rugged individualism all wrapped in a sanitized pageant of good-hearted Americana.
