THE BALLAD OF JOHN.(Yoko Ono's performances)

For many of the artists and musicians who came of age in a post-Beatles, post-John Lennon late-nineteen-eighties New York, it was Yoko Ono, and not her martyred husband, who had greater cultural resonance. With the release of her retrospective CD collection, "Onobox," in 1992, Ono demonstrated what a forceful, distinctive avant-gardist she was. Stretching the parameters of the traditional Japanese vocal and combining the result with John Cage-influenced experiments in electronic sound, Ono was a tougher, less melodic Meredith Monk: a musical futurist with a learned, albeit improvisatory, approach to the studio--indeed, to the whole concept of being an artist. Small wonder, then, that Lennon, the most intellectual Beatle, upon meeting Ono at an exhibition of her installation work in London, in 1966, was impressed by this woman, who had everything he didn't: a rich and cultivated family, an education, an avant-garde pedigree, and an appealingly limited relationship to the late-twentieth-century culture that Lennon and his bandmates had helped to define.

While the creators of "Lennon" (at the Broadhurst) spend some time on the Ono-Lennon collaborations, the show--or, rather, the revue--focusses, in standard musical-bio fashion, on Liverpool's "working-class hero" as he makes his way from the cradle to the grave, from his "Twist and Shout" days with the Beatles to his career as a solo artist, producing such ballads of white-male sensitivity as "How Do You Sleep?," "Give Peace a Chance," "Woman," and "Beautiful Boy." Conceived and directed by Don Scardino, who also wrote the book, "Lennon" presents nine performers in the title role, most of whom address the audience directly as their character's tale unfolds. By casting several actors as Lennon, Scardino means to highlight his protagonist's multiple personae: musician, activist, prankster, TV guest, stay-at-home dad, etc. But the conceit fails, mainly because Scardino seems less interested in the subtleties of interpreting a life story than in putting on a very, very big show with a very, very loud sound system. The actors are forced to compete with the bombast simply in order to be heard. Among the show's better performers--all of whom struggle with the dreary costuming, the Lennon-by-way-of-Ethel Merman arrangements, and the many screens onto which images from Lennon's real life are projected--are Marcy Harriell, Julia Murney, Chad Kimball, Will Chase, and Chuck Cooper. Only Cooper, who has a dignity and playfulness that seem to belong to another show altogether, manages to rise above the outrageous typecasting that goes on here. One especially uncomfortable moment occurs when Harriell sings "Woman Is the Nigger of the World." Light-skinned and curly-haired, she rips the roof off the song. But did Scardino have to give the song to a black woman? Murney--who is white, and a strong, capable actress--would have done just as well with the material, but in a less obvious way.

Obviousness, however, is Scardino's goal. He wants "Lennon" to be a Broadway hit--a sadder "Ain't Misbehavin'." The only way he could have made this show better would have been to make it a different show, one that focussed, for instance, on the marriage of minds between John and Yoko, which yielded so many complicated songs and sound pieces and political statements--as well as provoking a series of confused and often racist responses in the press. For that story, you'll have to look elsewhere.

In Terrence McNally's best work, theatre--or, more specifically, the artifice inherent in all social interaction--plays as much of a role as his often outrageous subject matter. A campier John Van Druten, McNally writes well-made plays that work. At the same time, one senses the anxiety behind his need to please. When he doesn't succeed, the viewer leaves the theatre--as I did after seeing his hackneyed 1994 Tony Award-winning hit, "Love! Valour! Compassion!"--feeling almost guilty, as ...