This past Saturday, as afternoon turned to evening, I waited in a queue for 90 minutes to see Sun & Sea (Marina). When I finally got inside the large brick building, I was hit by the balmy heat of the space. Then I climbed the stairs to a balcony, the viewing platform, where some 70 people huddled around bannisters, looking down. Below, the beach was surreal. We watched as the swimsuit-clad performers lounged and cavorted across the sand, their angelic voices filling the room.
In one corner, four small children played tug-of-war; toward the center, a pair of identical twins, with matching pigtails and mint-green bikinis, sunned side by side; elsewhere an elderly couple napped and did crosswords. Others, from single men to young couples, sipped on water bottles, played frisbee, knitted, checked their phones, ate salad. There were even two well-behaved dogs. The scene could take place at any beach, lending a sense of universality to the scene. That universality is furthered through the libretto.