On Assignment

Or: Getting entertained to death in Branson, MO

Yakov Smirnoff – of early ‘80s “In Soviet Union, car drives YOU!” fame – is currently fighting a losing battle against a mob of bloodthirsty, dancing pirates. Overwhelmed, he swings a plastic sword wildly through the air as he’s driven ever closer to the edge of the stage. “Oh no!” he cries. “I think we’re in for an adventure!”

I’m sitting in the Yakov Smirnoff Theater in Branson, Missouri. Hundreds of semi-conscious senior citizens with pants up to their necks fill the seats around me, applauding every Russian themed dance number and crusty joke about the differences between men and women (men and toilet seats: when will they ever learn?). I’m applauding along with them, and it isn’t until the show’s climax – in which Smirnoff serenades and subsequently waltzes with the Statue of Liberty – that the big question finally hits me: What the hell am I doing here?

Yakov Smirnoff: He’s not dead yet

The armadillo, the mayor, and the ghost
Branson sits astride the shores of Lake Taneycomo in the middle of the Ozarks, 40 miles north of the Arkansas border. A self-described “Family-Friendly Las Vegas,” it’s home to a ridiculous number of theaters and attractions that cater almost exclusively to the geriatric set: Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede, Dick Clark’s American Bandstand Theater, The Roy Rogers-Dale Evans Museum. Andy Williams, Bobby Vinton and the surviving members of Bill Haley’s Comets are among Branson’s red-hot celebrity fixtures, along with Mel Tillis, Ann-Margaret, and yes, Yakov “What a country!” Smirnoff. In addition to these highlights, Branson also contains plenty of standard tourist-trap fare: Hollywood wax museums, haunted houses, miles and miles of biblical-themed motels. To make a useful local comparison, Branson is a lot like Wisconsin Dells, only with fewer water parks and more theaters owned by the Oak Ridge Boys.

For reasons unclear, I’ve been sent to Branson to cover its annual Summertime in the Ozarks Festival. Accompanied once again by VITAL’s own Amy Elliott, my assignment is open-ended and my angle unclear: should I write about how ridiculous this place will almost surely be? Should I look for something deeper, a hidden side to Branson rarely seen or discussed? Should I just say “fuck it” and check out the Red Skelton tribute show? In the end, I manage to come up with a half-baked notion that no matter what, I should attempt to shield our adventures with the least amount of protective irony as possible; I want to be truly entertained. And in a town that counts Tony Orlando as one of its main selling points, that’s a tall order.

We arrive on a Thursday morning, bleary and caffeine-shaky from a grueling 10-hour drive through the night. After grabbing a quick breakfast at the Farmhouse Café (I order a cheese omelet, which arrives – topped as promised – with two melted Kraft Singles) and checking into our rooms at the brand-new Hilton Convention Center (an elderly doorman claims some sort of Kenosha connection after learning where we’re from), we decide to forgo a much-needed nap and explore the town instead. Branson’s historic downtown district – all antique shops, five-and-dimes and ice cream parlors – is certainly overflowing with charm, though it quickly becomes apparent that Amy and I are the only people under the age of 200 within its ten-block radius. While admiring a stuffed armadillo (complete with cowboy hat and holsters) in a junk-store window, a particularly ancient resident helpfully informs me that armadillos are “de-struc-tive little critters,” and should be avoided at all costs. Whether this warning applies to all armadillos or just gun-toting ones is never made clear.

Heeding the woman’s advice nonetheless, we leave downtown and head to a small theme park called Celebration City for our first scheduled event: a meet-and-greet with Branson’s mayor, 28 | subversions | Vital Source Raeanne Presley. Aside from being a total babe (Amy and I both confess to a strange crush later that evening), she’s also the wife of one of the members of Presley’s Country Jubilee, Branson’s original live show and the family dynasty that made the town what it is today. Charmed by the well-connected mayor, we stroll through the park (think a mini-Six Flags from the mid-70s), ride a surprisingly effective wooden roller coaster, and watch some sort of “Hyperactive Dogs Catching Frisbees” demonstration. Branson: so far, so good.

On our way back to our hotel, many hours and drinks later (thank you, Rocky’s Lounge), we spy a large group of people armed with digital cameras, their flashes lighting up the now-darkened downtown streets. Suspecting some sort of accident or celebrity sighting (Phyllis Diller, perhaps?), we decide to investigate. It turns out to be a “Haunted Branson” ghost tour, in which suckers – er, ghost hunters – are led around in hopes of catching “spirit orbs” on film. Of particular interest to the group is a long, steep alleywaythat runs along the Hilton’s parking garage, surely the scene of some sort of horrific parking-ticket mishap. With little-to-no sleep in the past 36 hours, Amy and I have become a bit punchy; and I start mocking the ghost hunters (“This parking garage sure is terrifying!”) while Amy rolls down the alley for no discernable reason. The confused group – their camera flashes quickly ceasing – are less than thrilled.

Twenty minutes later – safe from wayward armadillos or spirit orbs – we’re in our beds and unconscious, the sounds of nearby Lake Taneycomo drowned out by the room’s air conditioner.

Shoji makes it snow and Yakov cries about 9/11(twice a day!)
There’s a weird thread running through a lot of the shows in Branson, and it goes something like this: star-struck foreigner dreams of sharing his talent with the world; foreigner immigrates to America with $50 in his pocket and spends years honing his craft; foreigner finally realizes the American show-biz dream by building a theater in Branson and charging 40 bucks for a Saturday matinee. Of course, nowhere in this narrative is it suggested that performing for busloads of Social Security recipients in the middle of the Ozarks may actually represent the bitter end of the American show-biz dream, but hey, even the Lennon Sisters have to pay the rent.

America’s Hottest Mayor

This “coming to America” theme is readily apparent in the two big shows we have lined up for our second day in town: Yakov Smirnoff and Shoji Tabuchi. Yakov’s show is exactly what you would expect from the faded ‘80s comedian: shameless, pandering, tired. Opening with some “topical” jokes that would make Jay Leno blush (oh, that Bill Clinton and his blowjobs!), the show quickly turns into a strange sketch-show revue: Yakov as a pirate, Yakov as the President, Yakov as a mad scientist. All throughout, jokes about his homeland (“Our apartment in Russia was so small that when my parents wanted to get romantic, they made mem look out the window!”) and wistful reminiscences about performing for Ronald Reagan abound.

Everything’s going along swimmingly until the show’s final act, when things take a turn for the maudlin and just plain icky. It turns out that in addition to being Branson’s resident Russian-born funnyman, Smirnoff is also an accomplished painter, a juicy tidbit relayed to us via a short video slide show narrated by Paul Harvey (!). Following the attacks of September 11, Yakov was so deeply moved that he created a giant mural and donated it to the city of New York. The mural – an overblown Hallmark card depicting a red, white, and blue heart – hung above Ground Zero for nearly a year, no doubt inspiring many a New Yorker to think, “Yakov Smirnoff? He’s still alive?”

OK. Fine and dandy. However, when Yakov returns to the stage and starts breaking down – he actually starts to cry – while informing us that pieces of his mural can be purchased in his gift shop, well, I start to feel a little played. The knowledge that he does this “bit” twice a day for a paying audience doesn’t sit well with me, and erases almost all the goodwill he had built up since co-starring in The Money Pit in 1986.

Thankfully, our next show contains absolutely no 9/11 schmaltz. Instead, Shoji Tabuchi (of the Shoji Tabuchi Theater, natch) gives the white-hairs exactly what they want: big, blustery, old-timey entertainment. Due to a misprint on our itinerary, Amy and I arrive to the show a half-hour late. Taking our seats during a rousing rendition of “Danny Boy,” we try to process what we’re seeing: Tabuchi – a slight, middle-aged Asian man with a Beatles moptop – is a classically trained violinist and, by all appearances, a connoisseur of fine sequined blazers. The show itself is almost overbearingly strange, and gives off a Lawrence-Welk-by-way-of-Barbara- Mandrell vibe. In no particular order, the next hour of our lives will include: lasers, fireworks, heart-attack-inducing confetti-cannons, sequins, flying dancers, flying upright bass players, flying drummers, sequins, Elvis songs, Broadway songs, Japanese songs, George Strait songs, the Beer Barrel Polka, sequins, sequins and a special Christmas medley (complete with snow!). It’s all a bit much, to be sure, but in the end I find myself utterly and completely entertained.

It’s already dark when the show lets out. Figuring our evening couldn’t possibly get any stranger, Amy and I leave the glitz of Branson’s theater district behind. Driving aimlessly through the night, we lose ourselves in the emptiness of the Ozarks, Stevie Wonder and Turkish heavy metal blasting through our open car windows.

The great flood
It’s our final day in town, and our itinerary calls for a special press preview of Noah: The Musical. At this point, my Branson irony-shield is near the point of crumbling, and we’re both less than ecstatic with the prospect of sitting through a heavy-handed biblical story put to song. But hey, it’s got live animals, and there’s an off-chance we may see some monkeys.

Noah is brand new to Branson, and is clearly meant to be the town’s pièce de resistánce. Housed in the behemoth Sight & Sound Theater on the edge of town, it’s a ridiculous spectacle: like an IMAX film come to life, the show is so big and overblown as to be rendered completely meaningless. Beginning with a PA announcement informing us that what we’re about to see is “a fictionalized account of factual events,” there’s something off about the whole thing, something decidedly un-Branson. Indeed, we’ll find out later that the show has been brought to town by a Christian entertainment conglomerate out of Pennsylvania, and that each and every employee of the show – actors and parking attendants alike – are required to complete a “spiritual interview” before signing on. Only in Branson could something make a weeping Yakov Smirnoff seem like the height of good taste, sincerity and restraint by comparison.

The lion and the lamb. Take that how you will.

We leave Noah after the first interminable act. Mentally exhausted, we decide to ignore our itinerary and drive through the countryside. Crossing over the formidable Table Rock dam, we keep going until we find a small park on the far edge of Lake Taneycomo. It’s partly underwater – still flooded from the heavy spring rains – and almost impossibly beautiful and unreal. We take off our shoes and wade out to a park bench that sits just above the water’s surface. Our defenses down, we stay for what seems like hours, watching children swim out to half-submerged trees and gazebos. They jump from the trees and into the water – unafraid and without hesitation – as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Resurfacing and gasping for air, they laugh out loud and swim back, repeating the process over and over and over again. VS

Matt Wild enjoyed himself thoroughly and would like to thank Amber and Matt of Rocky’s Lounge for being such kick-ass bartenders.

BRANSON: BY THE NUMBERS
Number of miles driven – 1,300
Amount spent on gas – $240
People met from Wisconsin – 4
Comments on our accents – 4
Haunted houses/dinosaur museums visited – 1
Jokes about Taco Bell in Yakov show – 2
Sequined blazers in Shoji show – impossible to count

Armadillos, ghost hunters, dinosaur museums, kids on leashes — see it all at vitalsourcemag.com, with video blogs from Branson and a fictional account of factual occurrences in the form of a full-length film travelogue.