E-Mail This Article to a Friend Sons and brothers Twosome soars in Stoneham John & Jen BY IRIS FANGER
	John & Jen Book by Tom Greenwald. Music by Andrew Lippa. Lyrics by Greenwald and Lippa. Directed by Scott Edmiston. Set by Janie E. Howland. Costumes by Gail Astrid Buckley. Lighting by Karen Perlow. Music direction by Timothy Evans. With Leigh Barrett and Eric Rubbe. At Stoneham Theatre through March 6.

At this weary juncture of history, when we’re stuck between remembering the sins of our fathers in sending American boys to die in Vietnam and experiencing the déjà vu of watching it all over again in Iraq, you might think that an almost through-sung portrait of the life of a protesting flower child contrasted with that of the guys who went off to fight would be redundant. It’s true that the Andrew Lippa/Tom Greenwald mini-musical John & Jen can’t shake some aspects of a generic revisiting; nonetheless, the show’s area premiere at Stoneham Theatre is so well served by its pair of simpático actors/singers that it’s worth the trip up Route 93.

Winner of a 2004 Elliot Norton Award for Outstanding Actress, Leigh Barrett takes us through Jen’s life from the birth of her baby brother to a 360-degree turn in personality when she leaves home during the 1960s, then on to her transformation as a single mother with a son. Eric Rubbe plays brother John in act one and son John in act two, the portrayals separated by an intermission and a change in attitude.

Barrett, who’s made memorable appearances in many local musicals, including A Little Night Music at the Lyric Stage Company and Passion at Speakeasy Stage Company, outdoes herself here. On stage for almost the entire show, she matures before your eyes, sans stage tricks like pretending to be a little girl by skipping or cutesy gestures, and she avoids the tragic posture of a woman alone when the boys grow up and leave her. Her full-bodied voice is well able to soar over the volume of the small-but-loud orchestra while exploding the emotional land mines embedded in the character’s journey from self-involvement to self-knowledge. Which is all the more remarkable because the often pedestrian lyrics offer insufficient support.

Rubbe is charming as the pair of young rebels, making the tracks of his Johns’ close but complex relationships with Jen more than familiar to anyone who’s had siblings or experienced parent-child confrontations. Director Scott Edmiston has staged the quick-moving action in economical fashion, keeping the progression of events simple and clear, to give the actors room — and permission — to expand.

Although either half of John & Jen could stand as a one-act, a connection is forged by Jen’s love for and protective attitude toward her brother and her son. It’s clear that her father and her husband (or the father of her child, we’re not told which) have been more-negative presences. This makes the work by Wild Party composer Lippa and Greenwald a refreshing oddity in American musical theater, where the plot generally turns on the arc of a romantic love affair. The press kit explains that the show began life as a 10-minute musical before being expanded to one act and then to two.

A three-man orchestra directed by Timothy Evans is visible at the rear of the stage, and Janie E. Howland’s set, lit by Karen Perlow, supplies a rudimentary living room backed by a series of photographs mounted on the wall and projections of changing images. That’s the company and the décor. The singing, dancing legions of Miss Saigon, replete with on-stage helicopter landing, this isn’t. All the same, I wonder why the projections were necessary, since most of them echo the mounted photos, and the blue-sky image at the end only ramps up the sentimentality that occasionally threatens to swamp the proceedings.

Lippa’s score and Greenwald’s book are based on the Stephen Sondheim model of mostly recitative cut by a few breaks into specific song styling or soaring melody. Barrett does her best to vary the pace by making "Santa Isn’t Coming Tonight" into a lullaby of sorts; Rubbe is fine and funny in "I Hate Her/I Hate Him," the chronic family battle cry. There’s also a hip-swinging reference to Hair for a Barrett dressed in leather vest, beads, and a long-stringy-haired wig. Lippa and Greenwald make clever use of the mechanism of the reprise to acknowledge the repeated turns of the life cycle from act one to act two. The composer and librettist establish the outlines; Barrett and Rubbe elevate their work into a theatrical story worth retelling.