John C. Reilly wants to win hearts in Mr. Romantic, a truly beloved show | platform

IIn one of Hollywood’s great ironies, actor John C. Reilly has finally made it big with a song about being invisible. His Oscar-nominated performance as the deluded and loyal fool Amos Hart in Chicago Kender and Eep was defined by his solo performance, Mr. Cellophane. Director Rob Marshall had him sing it to an empty theater so that Amos wouldn’t get an audience for his big number.

More than 20 years later, Riley has dusted off his tailcoat and reddened his cheeks again under a new moniker, Mr. Romantic, and this time the house is full. Backed by a four-piece band, he’s here to win our hearts with 90 minutes of jazz and folk songs, as well as quirky songs and comedic verses. After a dozen or so dates in the US, the show will have a brief run this week in London at the Soho Theater Walthamstow, whose beautifully restored interior and history as a music hall fit Mr. Romantic like a glove.

It’s a farce with the gentlest touch of Big Guignol. The band makes its way through the hall, with Charles De Castro doing double duty on accordion and trumpet, opening with Tom Waits’ “Just Another Sucker on the Vine.” They proceeded to drag our host onto the stage hiding inside a box. When he climbs out, hair like a shock-headed Peter, he declares that he doesn’t know what day it is, his location, or even his band. But if just one of us were to love him forever, he wouldn’t have to go back to the box.

And so the seduction begins. Reilly begins with “Pretend,” a 1953 Nat King Cole hit, the wistful optimism rewoven here as if in homage to the theater audience’s role in all this: “And if you sing this tune / You’ll pretend just like me / The world is mine and it can be yours, my friend.” It’s kind of a promise: come to the show and you won’t regret it.

Between lyrics, Reilly drifts around the stage with some silent clowning that brings back memories of Oliver Hardy on screen, opposite Steve Coogan’s Stan Laurel, in their film about a 1950s variety hall tour. As Mr. Romantic lights an invisible cigar, blowing smoke and hula rings into it, he can’t hide a smile at the whim. And who can blame him? Then we move on to Irving Berlin’s “Blue Skies,” where Riley imitates the bluebirds in the song as if he were a grizzled Snow White.

The tone of the evening is equal parts broad ingenuity and seasoned world weariness. A kind of eternal troubadour, the show’s website lists tour dates as far back as 1590 at London’s Globe Theater (nine years before it was actually built) and the night before the famous 1903 fire at Chicago’s Iroquois Theater. Mr. Romantic appears to be no less youthful than his timeless setlist. But his innocent air also brings to mind Buddy the Elf, played by Step Brothers co-star Will Ferrell.

Step Brothers gave Reilly some absurd songs, as did many of his comedies of the time, but his lead role in Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story relied on his prowess as a singer. The musical satire follows Cox’s attempt to become a “double great” singer, after the unfortunate death of his brother with a machete, by imitating Johnny Cash, the Beatles and others, with Reilly’s music helping to spread the jokes.

Most of Mr. Romantic’s songs are done live, and his band (completed by David Garza on piano and guitar, Gabe Witcher on violin, and David Beltch on bass) wears grim expressions. But he got eccentric in Earl O’Kane’s “My Room,” where he matched dark humor with bawdy innuendos. This is a welcome change in a show that sticks too closely to one record and misses the more obvious emotion of the other Waits tracks found on Reilly’s album.

On screen, some of Riley’s most notable musical credits have been duets – witness his cowboy comradeship with Woody Harrelson in Robert Altman’s hit “Prairie Home Companion.” Instead, Mr. Romantic sings alone, except to enlist us as backing singers and chat with the audience while he searches for someone — anyone — to love. The ensemble work, accomplished with a rose-red microphone, is carefully managed, and Reilly’s features are captivating in close-up – this face, halfway into its own caricature, veers from admiration to sadness as the romantic master is rejected time after time.

This feeds into the drama of the songs when he dedicates, for example, “You Don’t Know Me” (written by Eddy Arnold and Cindy Walker) to these individuals — a song that veers from the usual unrequited loyalty to the contempt of a rejected suitor. It’s a clever concept: here is a singer of soul-baring songs whose heart breaks for his audience.

All shades of love are here: eager and persistent, effortless and desperate, and yet none of them can be regretted or completely extinguished. “You and the song are gone / But the melody still stands,” he sings as he approaches the end of the evening, another nod — like that opening number — to the chemistry between performer and audience.

Riley dreamed up this magical appearance after “looking at our tired world a few years ago and trying to think of a way I could spread love and compassion.” It’s rare that songs feel like they reach you directly, but that’s what he achieves – mistakes aside – through his unquestioning sincerity. “I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time,” Amos muttered at the end of Mr. Cellophane’s narration. On the contrary: I could have kept listening all night.