It has been a long time since I have felt compelled to write a piece for the experiment that is my theater blog. There are many factors for the hiatus—the amount of time it takes to write an article, the fact that the only people who read it are friends of mine that I can easily talk with about theater over coffee with a lot less effort, the discouragement of sending a few articles out to theater websites and companies with no response. But I think the main reason why is because there has been so very little out there to write about. The state of Broadway and the West End is not about theater, it is about spectacle. Mediocre movies are being turned into big and lavish, but still mediocre, musicals with very little in the way of quality or artistic merit. Pricilla Queen of the Deset is a flashy jukebox musical, filled with 80s dance floor hits that do not fit plot or theme. They make even the attempted emotional moments laughable because of their misplacement. Oh yeah, and it sets the gay rights movement back about 20 years. Instead of spending what I am sure were millions on costumes and a strobe-lit bus, maybe the producers could have hired a few original songwriters to give the talent cast something to sing about. Catch Me if You Can featured present and future Broadway royalty belting out original songs, set to a 60s groove, composed by the team that brought us the charming Hairspray. But there was little to no character development, so the audience has no attachment to what is being sung, nor a reason to care about the trails and tribulations of a con man. In fact, the one show I have seen in the last six months that was worthy of the time it takes to do a write up, The Scottsboro Boys, closed the week after I saw it. Of course, why wouldn’t it? It was only intelligent, beautifully choreographed by Susan Stroman, marvelously performed by the best ensemble cast I had seen since the original RENT, had songs by the legendary Kander and Ebb, a politically astute book about race in America, and still managed to entertain. And the kicker—it was an all black cast doing a minstrel show.
So why with all of the complaining have I decided to take to the keyboard and write again? Because I had the pleasure and pain of experiencing true theater in all of its glory—Angels in America Parts I and II: Millennium Approaches and Perestroika. This two night, seven hour masterpiece set in New York City during the first wave of the AIDS epidemic took the audience through a fever dream induced, monologue filled, valium delusion laden, life affirming journey into the lives and hearts of--among others –a closeted Mormon and his mentally unstable wife; said Mormon’s mother who leaves Salt Lake City for New York City; a thirty year old man who has discovered not only his first legions, but also that he is a prophet; his secular-Jewish ex-partner who could not bear to watch him die; an AIDS infected political powerhouse who pulled strings to get the then experimental AZT and is being haunted by the ghost of Ethel Rosenberg; an all-knowing drag queen nurse; and of course angels who see the destruction of Earth and whose only advice it to stay still. Got all that? I’m not sure I did either, but that basic plot summary is just that—basic. The true depth of this work of art can only truly be grasped by multiple viewings or readings. But isn’t that art? Peeling away layers to get to the heart underneath it all? And with all of the crazy, chaotic, funny, and tender moments in this play, the heart of it all is that in the face of any tragedy, personal or public, “the world spins forward.”
The cast was stellar and filled with New York theater veterans and newcomers alike, not B-list celebrities who won a reality show. The sets were sparce and the effects minimal, yet the emotional impact and intimacy was far greater than the Wickeds and Jersey Boys of the theater district. It makes me sad that so many will never experience such power in performance. But then again, I kind of love that those who made the time investment and effort to seek out a non commercial piece were there to actually watch the show and not crunch their candy in my ear or answer a phone call during a soliloquy.
