Second-worst, fifth-worst, eighth-worst? When a musical is this awful, you pore over your personal Book of the Lame: Was "Taboo" this bad? Surely the jaw dropped further during Robert Cuccioli's famous hair-flinging aria in "Jekyll and Hyde." Then again, there was that once-in-a-lifetime musical salute to garlic in "Dance of the Vampires." But wait: What about the galling dullness of "Urban Cowboy," the chafing dryness of "Dracula," the decrepitude of "Dream"?
So many painful memories to relive and prioritize! The theater's ability to induce something akin to post-traumatic stress disorder is fully realized with a show like "Brooklyn, the Musical," which opened last night at the Plymouth Theatre. Not to be confused with the gritty borough it's named for, "Brooklyn, the Musical" is a plastic bit of amateurishness. The feelings it expresses are about as authentic as a holiday dreamed up by a greeting card company.