Based on the 1962 Blake Edwards film starring Jack Lemmon and Lee Remick, the musical version of Days of Wines and Roses hews fairly closely to the script by JP Miller (itself based on Miller’s 1958 teleplay), exploring the relationship between go-getter ad exec Joe Clay and the boss’s attractive secretary Kirsten Arnesen, which begins when he charms her into having her first drink (she dislikes the taste of liquor but loves chocolate, so he orders her a Brandy Alexander—and she’s hooked). They are soon married, but Joe’s excessive drinking while keeping up appearances with his clients and superiors kills his work ethic and gets him fired.

 

Meanwhile, once Kirsten discovers a taste for liquor, she becomes an even worse alcoholic than Joe. He is able to clean up his act but can’t convince his wife to do so—she soon leaves Joe and their daughter Lila to sleep with strangers she picks up to fuel her drinking habit. It’s certainly not an original story, but Days of Wines and Roses works effectively, even touchingly, because Joe and Kirsten are an ordinary couple whose relationship is destroyed by addiction. 

 

While I doubt anyone was begging for a stage musical of Roses, it does have a quiet power. Craig Lucas’ book distills the essence of Joe and Kirsten’s descent into darkness in a series of fleet scenes, even if it lays on the water imagery too thickly, apparently to show that these lives are awash in liquid. Adam Guettel’s music (his lyrics are mostly commonplace, sadly) often excitingly adapts the musical idioms of the ’50s and ’60s setting, the jazzy and bluesy chromaticism underscoring the initial ecstasy and culminating agony of the couple’s long and winding journey.

 

Most tantalizing is how the song interludes are used. Aside from Lila briefly joining in near the end, only Joe and Kirsten sing, and only occasionally in a duet; it’s usually one or the other. It’s an interesting way to separate the couple from those around them, even close to them (like Kirsten’s skeptical elderly father or Joe’s frustrated Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor), underlining their walled-off world of pain and addiction. The subtly imaginative choreography by Sergio Trujillo and Karla Puno Garcia visualizes both their togetherness and separation.

 

Michael Greif’s exemplary staging keeps its focus on the couple even as it sketches the surrounding, and vibrant, New York milieu. (Miller’s teleplay and movie script were set in San Francisco.) Especially helpful in this regard are Ben Stanton’s illuminating lighting, Dede Ayite’s on-target costumes, Lizzie Clachan’s expressive sets and Kai Harada’s clever sound design. 

 

Of course, nothing would work without powerhouse performers at its center. Brian d’Arcy James’ natural charm, likability and stellar singing gain sympathy for Joe even when he’s selfishly sending his wife to her ruin. And, as Kirsten, Kelli O’Hara is again spectacular, another indelible portrait of a woman damaged by the man and the circumstances around her in a career filled with such characters. (See The Light in the Piazza, Far from Heaven and The Bridges of Madison County, for starters.) O’Hara’s exquisite vocals are nearly unmatched at harnessing pure emotion from a single note, and she and her scene partner together become a singular, memorable vision.