Here’s the thing about Hugh Jackman. His talent merits a spotlight, he looks very good (still) in a spotlight and, unlike the vast majority of his peers, he can absolutely be relied upon to know the name of the spotlight operator.
Jackman, for the record, also has learned the names of, and provided employment to, the veteran pair of Radio City Music Hall house organists, the musicians in his more-than-amply sized orchestra, his backup singers, his clutch of dancers. On the opening night of “From New York, With Love,” Jackman’s 24-show Radio City residency, which continues weekends, on and off, through October, he introduced so many people to his fans, about the only people left anonymous were the grand old venue’s ushers.
Jackman, who at 56 has entered what you might call the Jean Valjean stage of his career, has morphed from a presence that I once heard accurately described as the corporal embodiment of pure sex — be you straight or gay or anywhere between, Jackman’s on-stage persona was ready and able to morph to your preference — to a warm-centered, bearded Aussie patriarch who now has been famous long enough to learn that the lasting satisfactions of celebrity come from your power to shine the spotlight on someone else.
Thus he paid ample props to BFF Gus Worland, a pal since kindergarten sitting in the seats and a media personality who has campaigned to draw attention to the suicide problem among men. He introduced his physical trainer, Beth Lewis, told us of her long-held dream to be a Rockette and then produced out of his hat two actual Rockettes from the wings so as to fulfill said dream. And he even grabbed what might have been the world’s most introverted violinist from the back of his band and pushed her into the spotlight, sprawling sheet music and all. It was not an easy match.
“She can’t wait to get back up there,” Jackman said to the audience, as the fine fiddler scurried back to a clearly preferred anonymity. Still, there was a new glint in her eye. from this Ozdust ballroom.
For much of the audience, though, the most thrilling guest star of “Hugh Jackman Live From New York with Love” was Jackman’s BFF #2, the actor Ryan Reynolds, who caused a big flurry when he first wandered to his seat and then popped up with a microphone to do a vox populi bit with the crowd before he delivered an unsolicited, and clearly genuinely felt, homage to Jackman’s qualities as a pal and mentor. Or in the preferred parlance, the “gotcha for life” friend that we all should make sure stands permanently at our side (hmm).
When it came to those two, one had to wonder, who was doing whom the bigger favor?
But either way, healing was on the agenda, even if the name of Jackman’s widely reported belle Sutton Foster at no point escaped his lips. He certainly is entitled to that much privacy.
Jackson’s show is a blend of Broadway (the Friday set list included “You Will be Found” from “Dear Evan Hansen,” “Ya Got Trouble” from “The Music Man” and a measure or three from “Oklahoma”), homages to his movie career (“Stars” from “Les Miserables,” several selections from “The Greatest Showman,” a clip or two from “Wolverine”) and, most substantially, the songs of Australia’s own Peter Allen. That allowed Jackman to pay tribute to fellow Aussie Olivia Newton-John by performing (quite beautifully), “I Honestly Love You.”
This former Boy from Oz also rolled out Allen’s “We Don’t Cry Out Loud, once a big hit for Elkie Brooks, and, most movingly of all, “Quiet Please, There’s a Lady in the House,” written by Allen in tribute to his fading mother-in-law, Judy Garland.
If Qantas were smart, they’d be running charters for this show, such is Jackman’s palpable affection for his home country, even if he did wrap things up with “New York, New York,” which long has loved him just as much.
The man of the night is in fine voice: Such big stars in their mid-fifties often forge rewarding shows to attend, for all the reasons above and yet before the vibratos start to lengthen and the need to maintain fame in the face of callow youths (“Who’s that again, dad?”) starts to intrude.
For sure, it’s hard to imagine a performer in his 30s comparably worrying about whether this two-hour, intermission-less show placed too much pressure on the typical male bladder, but Johnson’s enormous charm and user-friendly architecture is perhaps best summed up by his freely offered assurance that anyone headed by necessity to the Gentleman’s Lounge need not apologize but move proudly up the aisle, perhaps saying hello to the crew on the light board even as they pass them by.
