Tony Break

I just wanted to take a break from my reviews of individual shows to jot down a few of my preliminary thoughts on the Tony Awards this year. I didn't get to watch them (being in Europe right now, and all), but I've seen the results and I have to say they came as a bit of a shock. 

The choice between Matilda and Kinky Boots seems to me to be a choice between several polar opposites: 

1) Subtle vs. Pedantic

While Matilda transforms a novel that seemingly resists adaptation in the form of a Broadway musical, Kinky Boots is the literal mold for most blockbuster hits (let me be clear, by "blockbuster hit," I mean a flashy, expensive musical that might last a year or so—I have higher standards for what I would call "great shows"). While the former uses the basic building blocks of language to spin an entrancing tapestry of stories that enchant through alienation, cleverly mock mediocrity, and encourage everyone to be the author of their own stories, the latter loudly proclaims at the end: "Just be with dignity. Celebrate yourself triumphantly. You'll see, just be." As if Broadway spectators had never heard that one before. 

2) Quiet vs. Loud

The defining song of Matilda is entitled "Quiet," in which Matilda stands on a block and sings a lovely, simple tune while the adults scream silently in the background. In contrast, her mother sings "Loud," proclaiming that "the less you have to sell the harder you sell it." This is essentially the motto of Kinky Boots, though they would never admit it. If their only message for audiences is to be themselves, they sure do make a racket saying it. Ms. Lauper's music isn't unpleasant (as indeed several numbers in Matilda are, and are supposed to be), but it's nothing special. It is loud. It is relentless. It is, well, just like everything else. 

3) Groundbreaking vs. Ripoff

While Matilda distinguishes itself by being nothing like other musicals in every way, Kinky Boots operates based on a traditional recycling of tired standards: the set, the music, the book, the plot, the dancing, the cross-dressing. The set in Matilda is unique and bold, the music is chaotic, the lyrics are subversive, the plot is genius (Roald Dahl, and no one can possibly disagree with that), and the use of cross-dressing should hopefully be a lesson in innovation to future shows even despite Mr. Carvel's unjustified loss. 

4) Discipline vs. Sloth

Matilda is a tediously-worked adaptation of a popular novel that has already been adapted into an equally popular film. Such work is evidenced by the beautiful product you see on stage: not quite the book, but something else. Definitely not the movie. The children are expertly trained, right down to their accents (which they maintain even during complicated songs and dance numbers). The fantastic balance between scenes and songs never fails to catch the audience off guard. And Mr. Carvel, whose performance cannot be lauded enough, has accomplished what might be the most incredible feat that any actor might have done: he has faithfully reproduced pure evil in all its unbalanced eccentricities. All this while Mr. Porter of Kinky Boots strutted about the stage in exactly the way Fierstein has done many times before. 

On the other hand, Kinky Boots never surprises the audience, who even with no knowledge of the film on which it is based (at least, this is how I experienced it), can easily predict every second that is still to come. The music does not fit with the story, the British accents are all lost in the extremely American tunes, and the entire show operates based on a shabby alternation between the perky group numbers and the trite slow ballads. They might have transferred the story over to this side of the pond, because the accents were actually quite infuriating, indicative of a much greater sloth that one can equally discern by looking at Mr. Fierstein eat one of his new hotdogs. Kinky Boots is a lazy musical, capitalizing on habits and pre-fabricated techniques. Nothing original, the musical might be compared to a coloring book written by someone else and filled in by Lauper and Fierstein, or maybe a set of legos. 

I could go on, but it's getting late and I'm tired. All I can say to conclude is this: perhaps it would have been too much of a statement, giving Matilda the Best Musical Tony Award. Such a choice might have implied that a group of children can put on a better show than Lauper and Fierstein and all the traditional transvestites in New York City. Perhaps such a choice would have reminded us that the West End is winning the unofficial battle of the arts. And I'm sorry Neil Patrick Harris, but no matter how big and flashy your opening number might be, Broadway cannot survive on that alone. This isn't your fault, though. It isn't Harvey Fierstein's either. It's mine. I shouldn't have hoped that whoever seems to be running the show could actually recognize brilliance. Rent only got 4 Tony Awards as well, and Wicked failed to win Best Musical to a funny show that just recently had to move Off Broadway to compensate for plummeting ticket sales. The Tony's have a long history of making the wrong call, and why should I have thought this year would be any different? 

Fortunately, it is not with that traditional Broadway flair that Matilda operates, and the Tony Awards clearly are not meant for such musicals. I think Matilda says it best: "If you think the ending is fixed already, you might as well be saying, you think that it's okay. And that's not right." Well, I think these awards were fixed, and that such behavior is the very reason for Broadway's latest failures. It's not right, and since I cannot do anything about it but continue to spend my money on Matilda, I will just have to content myself by putting the final period on this post.  

Jekyll and Hyde

When I was about 8, we went to see Jekyll & Hyde the musical. And while my friend Alexandra claims that taking children to a musical like that is child abuse, my brother and I knew what we were getting into well before we stepped foot in the theater. You see, we had been listening to the CD nonstop—I liked the pretty songs, and he liked the horrifying songs about murder. It was a great musical that we could both agree to like, but for totally different reasons. The CD alone gave me nightmares. Specifically Robert Cuccioli's voice, and his complete transformations from Jekyll into Hyde and vice versa. As I grew older and continued to listen to the CD, I was able to appreciate the complexity of his interpretations of what were otherwise mediocre lyrics. In college, I read the novel, and was surprised to see that it wasn't at all like the musical and that an extended theorization of the duality of man really had almost nothing to do with it: the novel is structured as a sort of mystery, recounted by the middle-aged bachelor friends of Dr. Henry Jekyll who were very surprised by his sudden, inexplicable friendship with a strange, little man named Edward Hyde. At the end, they have the not-so-surprising revelation that Jekyll was Hyde all along, which nowadays isn't particularly shocking since the name of the novel itself has become synonymous with good and evil. One of my Writing Seminars professors at Hopkins interpreted the novel as a commentary on homosexuality. For him, Hyde wasn't evil at all, but was gay, and that sort of behavior wouldn't be tolerated from a reputable doctor like Jekyll, so he "transformed" into Hyde in order to act however he wanted. The place where Hyde is "seen" committing the murder (though there is some doubt about that), my professor said, was essentially the red-light district, where upper-class people could get female or male prostitutes. 

I won't comment on that interpretation, but you can see that they would have to beef up the plot for a musical. So, Dr. Henry Jekyll now has a fiancée, Emma, who tolerates his obsession with finding the key to separate good and evil within mankind. The reason he's trying to do that, we learn in the first scene of the show, is to save his father, who is locked away in an insane asylum. Since that's not enough to keep the show going, they add in two more details: first, Jekyll asks permission to experiment on mental patients, and is denied; second, he attends a show at a cabaret/whore house and meets a prostitute (who, of course, has a heart of gold), Lucy. The musical that follows is the extended pondering on good and evil, the duplicity of men, told through the struggle of one man split into two that I was expecting from the novel (since I saw the musical first). It's a gripping tale when you're 8, mostly because of all the people being murdered all the time. Needless to say, I have very fond memories of my first and only encounter with a Frank Wildhorn musical. 

My first year in grad school, at the end of spring break, I went to Baltimore and took a little trip to DC to see 1776 at Ford's Theater. It was essentially history overload: the founding of America onstage where Lincoln was assassinated. The most shocking part of the whole thing for me, though, was when Dickinson (or rather, the actor playing Dickinson) walked onstage and told John Adams: "Mr. Adams, you are nothing but an agitator." Well, I am pretty sure my heart skipped a beat—it was Jekyll/Hyde from the CD! I hadn't looked in the program, but I was 100% sure. I knew that voice. During intermission, I verified, and I was right. That was indeed Robert Cuccioli on the stage. Side note: he is currently playing the Green Goblin in "Spider Man: Turn Off the Dark." I would go see him, but I wouldn't see that show again, not even if you paid me. 

Anyway, back to Jekyll & Hyde, the show. They recently restaged it, and put the new production on Broadway (in the Marquis Theater, in the Marriott) for a limited engagement. Starring Deborah Cox (who I have been told is a famous R&B singer) and Constantine Maroulis (who I guess was on American Idol), this production is trying a little too hard to be cool, which surprised me, considering it always seemed like a "cool" musical to me. What more could you want in a musical to make it exciting? Jekyll & Hyde has drugs (sure, medicinal, but they have surprising effects), sex, prostitutes, murder, horrific transformations, beautiful music, a person being set on fire, etc. It might have seemed over the top to me had I been a little older, but this new version took everything to a new extreme. 

The production opened in the mental hospital with Jekyll's father (a song called "Lost in the Darkness," Jekyll's heartwarming ballad to his father about how he will cure him at all costs), except instead of a simple man on a hospital bed, the father was stretched out across a metal board, held up facing the audience by a straight-jacket. The border of the stage lights up, and he screams. I guess it would have been scary to the eight-year-old me, but so was the Earthquake ride at Universal Studios. To the 23-year-old me, it was ridiculous. Who needs that? No wonder these tickets were so expensive! All that for just the first thirty seconds? And to make matters worse, "Lost in the Darkness" wasn't particularly recognizable. Maroulis sang well, he had a beautiful voice, but what had they done to the song? Then, they added one. For me, that was the last straw—why are they changing everything? This would be the question I would ask for the following three hours. "Murder, Murder" was barely recognizable (the addictive division of the standard 4/4 meter into two groups of three and one of two was eliminated); "Dangerous Game" had become a pop number, a shadow of the intense foreshadowing of the murder that would follow; and the worst part, "Confrontation," the song in which Jekyll and Hyde, portrayed by one man alone, battled it out on stage in front of you, resorted to the use of special effects to facilitate what would have otherwise required an impressive feat from the lead actor. 

I can see now why people hate Wildhorn musicals. I can see now why critics would complain about Jekyll & Hyde being too showy and not having enough substance. But what I cannot see was why the new director took these criticisms (which, as far as I can remember from something I saw when I was 8, were not really valid—sure, there were special effects, but they were necessary for the plot) to their logical extremes. The truly frightening scenes in the original were not overdone. The first transformation of Jekyll into Hyde was accomplished by a simple injection, followed by a clever development of the lead actor's mannerisms, voice, etc. The voice got deeper, the music became more intense, and finally he was hunched over the table, hair everywhere, and the entire theater went silent except for the clock. Using his left hand to write in his journal (whereas before, Jekyll had been right handed), Hyde writes: "4:00, and all is well." Then, he exclaims: "Free" in a voice that was no longer human. That is how I remember it, as a man writhing onstage seemingly in agonizing pain, being overcome by his darker side. In the new production, Maroulis has a line of green test tubes which turn red one by one, he straps himself into a strange contraption that fills him with this strange fluid by his arm and by his head. It is absurd, and result: not in the least bit scary. Same with "Confrontation." While the original was as simple a staging as possible: one man, center stage, fighting with himself, turning rapidly from one character into another, a constant reminder to the audience that they are indeed two parts of one whole, the new one is nothing like that. Projected fire everywhere, a digital Hyde threatens Jekyll, who sits helplessly in his living room, surrounded by these graphics. 

And the worst part is, I honestly believe that Maroulis could have done it. When he wasn't trying desperately to give these songs new life—something that didn't need to be done—he portrayed an obsessive Jekyll, a tortured soul who just did not know where to draw the line. And he portrayed him well. On the other hand, Deborah Cox was a delight, and I'm not just saying that because she very rarely strayed from a more traditional interpretation of her show-stopping numbers. The only main character who really perfected her British accent (Maroulis should take some lessons from the American children in Matilda, all of whom never lose the accent for even a second, not even while they sing), Cox brought life to an otherwise dull and stereotypical character. Her extraordinarily versatile voice, while not a traditional one for Broadway, fit nicely with the numbers, and her musicality was phenomenal. I almost considered buying one of her CD's, but it really wasn't my style of music. 

Overall, what I learned from the experience was that Jekyll & Hyde can still captivate, even in this new form. I saw it with my friend Alexandra, who knew absolutely nothing of the show or the story going in, and who immediately bought the new cast recording in the train leaving NYC. She didn't know the original, so she didn't know what she was missing. But I guess that reaction is just indicative of something timeless and gripping that is buried deep in this extremely under-appreciated and often-poorly-done musical (think of the filmed version, which is a good two and a half hours of David Hasselhoff shaking like a scared puppy as he tries to sing with vibrato...while the only thing he really knew how to do was rip his shirt off). That something—whether it be the original Robert Louis Stevenson tale, the music which, no matter how much you hate Frank Wildhorn, is still quite lovely, or just the fluidity with which the tale is translated into a piece of theater—is still there in this new production, but you clearly can't be too critical if you want to find it.  

Matilda

Seeing "Matilda" was, for me, the accomplishment of one of my long-term goals. Not because I really wanted to see this show—I heard it was amazing, but was slightly hesitant to walk into a musical in which 75% of the cast was younger than I am—but rather because of who I was seeing it with. The summer before I started my PhD in French literature at Princeton, my father drove the whole family to Atlanta, GA, to see a side of our family that we really didn't know. While my brother and I had heard the names of most of these members, seen them at his bar mitzvah and my bat mitzvah, and my brother had seen them all at one cousin's bat mitzvah which I couldn't attend for some reason or another, lack of more frequent interactions made them a little fuzzy in my mind at least (I cannot speak for him). We drove from Buffalo and my father's insane goal was to complete the drive in one day, which we did. I was more surprised by how far west Atlanta was than by how long the drive was. In any case, we arrived and the first person we saw was my Aunt Rhona, a beautiful southern woman who is as intelligent and well-spoken as anyone I have ever met in academia. After her, we all went to Aunt Dorris, who cooked us a complete southern breakfast, grits and all. That night, the whole Atlanta family welcomed us with a dinner party, and that was where I "met" Alan and Ritchie. I say "met" because I know I had met them before, but this was the first time I spoke with them as an adult, had a conversation I could remember, and formulated the goal I mentioned earlier. 

Chatting with these two men, I realized almost immediately that they were my heroes—every year, they went to NYC for four days, they said, and saw five shows. At the time, I had seen a formidable number of shows, but just not on Broadway. I had always been too far from NYC to be able to imagine actually seeing a show with the original cast. But five shows in four days was something I never even envisaged for myself or even for anyone. My goal was to see a musical with these two Broadway fanatics who were living my dream. When I saw them almost two years later, despite the rather solemn occasion, I was finally able to match their enthusiasm—I announced to them that, in two years at Princeton, I had seen 27 shows (not all on Broadway, but most—the number includes two shows in Baltimore, one at Ford's Theater in DC, one at Niagara on the Lake, an opera at the Met, and the Rockettes). Still, they were impressed, and told me their annual trip was coming up and that they were seeing "Matilda." I begged to let me come with them, and they got me a ticket!

Walking into the Matilda theater was like walking into my mind. The stage was covered in giant scrabble tiles—every square inch had a letter, number, or symbol. On the back of the stage were books, books, books, seemingly sprung from the letters. Seven swings were hanging from the ceiling, each with a block, the whole spelling out MATILDA. Children seemed to have drawn on the balconies in chalk! And other than all that, the only thing on the stage was a table, set for a birthday party. When the music began to play,  it seemed as though it were being played by children, and hands came out of the table and dragged it forward. 

Suddenly, one little girl popped out from under the table and sang: "My mommy says I'm a miracle!" and went right back down. More children kept popping up, saying how special they were, in that way that everyone could recognize from the beginning of Roald Dahl's novel. The boys could be soldiers, they said, "and shoot you in the face!" After a bit, the party entertainer came onstage and, unimpressed by the crowd of "miraculous" children, asks: "Is it some modern miracle of calculus that such frequent miracles don't render each one unmiraculous?" This first scene alone, by its sheer kookiness, literally sets the stage for Matilda's birth (5 years earlier)—a stage that is assembled and manipulated mostly by the children who govern it. Matilda alone seems immune to the good fortune of having devoted parents. Instead, she has a mother who cares more about ballroom dancing than realizing she is pregnant, and a father who calls her "boy" because he didn't want a girl. And according to her mother, Matilda is a "good case for population control." 

The first scene of Matilda is delightfully dark, morbidly funny, and raises existential questions about the meaning of life and whatnot without becoming bland, cliché, or absurd. I think that alone should be commended. But even more impressive, it creates a tone that is maintained throughout the entire show, with only a few obviously intentional exceptions: Mrs. Wormwood's song ("Loud"), Mr. Wormwood's ("Telly"), etc. 

This is not the movie, this is not the book—this is something else entirely. What Matilda the musical's creators seem to have done was choose a theme (in this case, the power of storytelling) and exhaust it through the medium of the musical. Beyond the set, the children are constantly spelling (often incorrectly), and one of the songs actually hides the alphabet into the lyrics. Tim Minchin, the show's composer/lyricist's cleverness isn't left alone, however, as the choreography proves to be just as playful. As the older children (played by adults) sing this song behind the intimidating gate of Crunchem Hall, continually dancing higher and higher due to the alphabet blocks they push into the holes in the gate. But as Matilda says her first day of school: you need to know how to spell letters into words in order to have any shot at sentences and then books. And why read books? Well, for the experience of the story, one which is brilliantly reproduced by Matilda telling stories to the enthusiastic librarian, Mrs. Phelps. As she stands on a solitary block, shadow puppets and actors do her bidding, and her voice becomes something other than that of a clever five-year-old. Enraptured, Mrs. Phelps (and by extension, the audience) hang on her every word. 

Matilda is that show we've been waiting for—the next show which will change the landscape of the modern musical. It pushes boundaries, exceeds expectations, and revives the lost childhood of each of its adult viewers. The reason: it avoids clichés, doesn't sugar coat the truth, and warms hearts through harsh language and dark actions. It is the opposite of the modern musical, but thankfully refuses to conform like the book from which it takes its story. And when I say it "revives the lost childhood" of viewers, I don't mean to say it makes one nostalgic. No, it's much more subtle than that. It recreates with excruciating details the fear one experiences when surrounded by people who are bigger, smarter, and have the edge. Ms. Trunchbull (played by the incomparable Bertie Carvel) is the perfect example of this adult figure in Matilda, an unstable monster who is frightening by her physique, her anger, and her madness. 

Matilda takes the traditional Broadway show and turns it on its head. "Loud," an over-the-top dance number, proclaims that "the less you have to sell, the louder you sell it." Unfortunately, this line has recently become the unspoken truth of Broadway shows. That seems to be why most of them are closing before even breaking even. But this virtue is not lauded in Matilda (except by one of the show's most repulsive characters). It is precisely the opposite that is encouraged: Matilda's most powerful song is called "Quiet," and begins at that moment when the audience expects magic. The magic comes, but it is that theatrical magic where the perfect combination of lights, acting, and song creates an unforgettable moment. As the Trunchbull screams at the little girl, she cannot hear anything, and instead remains inside her own head. And this is how she is able to unlock that power she derives from the books. 

If I keep going, I will have described every scene in the show and how it brilliantly advances this theme. Instead, I'm just going to say that this is a musical that will last, possibly the only new show of value this season. If Harvey Fierstein's name wins "Kinky Boots" more Tony's than "Matilda," then they will have been robbed. But it won't be the first time that the Tony Awards fail to reflect the respective worth of new shows. But ultimately, "Matilda" has arrived, is building upon the last "Broadway-changing" show that appeared in that theater ("Spring Awakening," and that was facetious, though the choreographer did incorporate "The B**** of Living" choreography and staging into the final number, "Revolting Children"), and will most likely succeed in raising standards. 

Kinky Boots

A woman's best friend when viewing a Broadway show is irrefutably a strong bladder. I was forced to reflect upon this little-acknowledged fact during the intermission of "Kinky Boots" as my friend and I headed to the bathroom and were somewhat shocked to find that the line extended up a flight of stairs, across the entire lobby, and almost to the theater entrance. I would say it was the longest bathroom line I had ever seen, but on several of my other theater-going occasions, I seem to recall similarly sized lines. When this same friend and I had seen "The Book of Mormon," the line was also positioned on a flight of stairs, with the lighting technician directing traffic, calling out several viewers for cutting. Even in a more distant past, I went to a preview performance of "The Producers" in Toronto with my parents and brother, and the bathroom line extended far into the middle of the lobby. Jam packed in the line amidst an endless sea of spectators, I promptly passed out from heat and general exhaustion, and was shoved to the front of the line. I remember coming to my senses in a cool stall, taking my time (even though I knew I was despised for such behavior), leaving the bathroom and having my father buy me a bottle of water. 

In any case, in the bathroom line for "Kinky Boots," I playfully remarked to my friend that the best way to get to the front of the line was to faint. Five minutes later, blinking lights signaled that we would not, in fact, have time to empty our bladders before the second act of the show. I wish I understood the reason behind this disparity in bathroom wait-time between men and women, but I assume it has something to do with the more technical aspects of relieving ourselves and how that varies between the sexes, and probably also the fact that Broadway musicals are traditionally oriented towards a more female audience. Well, that might not be true, but as the stereotype suggests, women and gay men like musicals—thus, the women's bathroom line is fated to be longer. Why they cannot adjust the bathroom sizes accordingly is also a mystery to me, since it appears those behind these Broadway blockbusters are acutely aware of this fact. Indeed, "Kinky Boots" is a testament to the general population of musical theater buffs and their viewing habits. 

"Kinky Boots" is a formulaic show that by its very nature reveals almost everything that has been wrong with Broadway in recent years: based on a less-than-popular feel-good movie, staging morality through stereotypical characters and their actions, and involving flamboyant drag queens who literally own the stage and preach acceptance, "Kinky Boots" tugs at an audience's sensibility in such an obvious way that nowadays, it actually should not produce any effect on us whatsoever. 

Let me explain myself more gently. I enjoyed "Kinky Boots" in a similar way that I enjoyed "La Cage aux Folles" (which I viewed last October, in Baltimore's Hippodrome theater, much too late for the subject matter to be shocking to someone like me—I am, after all, a twenty-something who has virtually been raised on shows and stories like these) or "Hairspray" (which I reluctantly saw one afternoon in Toronto as a fifteen-year-old who at the time wanted nothing more than to see "Mamma Mia" yet again). "RENT" is one of my favorite musicals, and Angel's cross-dressing does not phase me in the least. How could it? I started listening to the soundtrack when I was six year's old, and distinctly remember asking my father if Angel was a boy or a girl, to which he bluntly responded: "Angel is a boy who dresses like a girl." Even for my father, a member of that generation "RENT" was attempting to shock, the shock was not in Angel's cross-dressing. Rather, his tone seemed to suggest that there was nothing unique or out-of-the-ordinary in Angel's character, an implication that has since forced me to seek elsewhere for the greater meaning in "RENT." 

The difference in my reaction to "Kinky Boots" was that all throughout the formulaic plot, popped up music that sounded just like all shows, all conveniently squeezed into a perfectly acceptable 2 hours and 45 minutes, I had that horrible experience of déjà vu. And to a certain extent, that happens in every musical, since most are not their own original stories. But in "Kinky Boots," I felt the clichés pile up one by one, and was forced to admit almost immediately that there was absolutely nothing original that was going to happen in this theater. I don't know about you, but that is not a feeling I usually like to have when I've just shelled out $139 for my ticket. And after all of that, I wasn't even able to go to the bathroom during intermission. 

A scene in Act I of "Kinky Boots" that tries to be as self-righteous as it can is when Lola (Billy Porter), dressed as a man for his first real day of work at Charlie's shoe factory, immediately cloisters himself in the bathroom. The immediate question for the audience: which bathroom is he in? For Charlie (Stark Sands), the answer seems to be obvious: Lola is certainly in the women's bathroom, and when asked to go get Lola out, Charlie responds that he can't go into the women's bathroom. When he learns that Lola is in fact in the men's room, the song that follows is a deep reflection on their manhood, told through the figures of their fathers and their respective back stories. Forgive me if I don't go into details. I'm sure you can figure it out. I just found it ironic that, in a musical that centers around the heroism of the transvestite (or rather, the drag queen—a distinction that Lola makes early on), the fluidity presented in this bathroom scene is almost in direct contradiction with the experiences of most of the spectators of the show. Let me be clearer: I would have loved to use the no-line men's bathroom during intermission, but that sort of behavior is frowned upon in the very society which adulates the abolition of gender stereotypes through the figure of the drag queen. 

What I condemn "Kinky Boots" for is its lack of originality, and not its message. And I think that such a glaring discrepancy between the behavior of theater-goers and the reception of the show is indicative of this very problem. Broadway does not practice what it preaches. Rather, it capitalizes on ideals, charging exorbitant prices for tickets to shows that most viewers have already seen. Then, this recycled lesson in acceptance is given new music, new actors, and new Tony nominations. When it wins however many of the 13 Tony's it has been nominated for, "Kinky Boots" might make it another year or two on Broadway, swindling customers out of their hard-earned money to teach them a lesson they already know. The names associated with it alone—Cindy Lauper and Harvey Fierstein—are enough on their own to attract countless tourists who may not be in the loop. And they both know this. Lauper has created a score of foot-tapping tunes, sure to bewitch the audience for the duration of the show, but certain not to last for very long in their longterm memories. Fierstein has written a book that yet again glorifies the cross-dresser, which would not be so redundant if he weren't the very man who exhausted the genre. Yes, we all have to admit it: "Hairspray" might have been the last straw. I'm sure he was quite funny, but his time is over, and any future drag queens on Broadway stages are almost anachronistic ghosts of a decade ago, reminding us of what Broadway was. If there were other redeeming qualities to the story of "Kinky Boots," I would say the utilization of such techniques would be forgivable, but sadly it is as derivative as "High School Musical." Substitute high school jock for drag queen, and there you have it. 

I do not mean to say that "Kinky Boots" is a bad show. It's perfectly fine, an enjoyable afternoon. What I wish to convey is the practical message: it's not worth it to pay full price. While the leads (Stark Sands, Billy Porter, Annaleigh Ashford) perform admirably, they cannot bring originality to the show. Annaleigh Ashford came the closest, with her over-the-top portrayal of yet another cliché (the lower-class factory worker who falls for her boss). Unfortunately, her role was so reduced that her purpose seemed a bit superfluous and rushed. When to escape the preaching drag queen cliché, one's only refuge would be yet another, it would be a clear crime to call this musical "original." 

While I certainly cannot blame Mr. Fierstein and Ms. Lauper for cashing in on these tried and true techniques to boost ticket sales, I would have expected more from them. Especially Mr. Fierstein, who should know better. In the past few years, absolutely no new shows have broken or even experimented with the traditional Broadway mold, ticket sales continue to drop, prices continue to rise, and no one seems able to acknowledge that perhaps this genre is making itself irrelevant. Musicals like "Kinky Books" are evidence of this fact, and it is a shame: the musical as a truly "American" genre is flexible, adaptable, and fluid enough to adapt on its own without resorting exclusively to the repetition of the same tired themes. But don't take my word for it: read Ben Brantley's New York Times review here (http://theater.nytimes.com/2013/04/05/theater/reviews/kinky-boots-the-harvey-fierstein-cyndi-lauper-musical.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0), and note that, while he doesn't say it directly, there is absolutely nothing in "Kinky Boots" to warrant $139 of your hard-earned money. 

PS: 

Dear Mr. Fierstein,

While I did not love your show, I certainly did enjoy your surprise visit at the end. In the past two years, I have seen 29 musicals, and even so, I never would have expected you to attend a random Wednesday matinee performance and invite the entire theater for hot dogs afterwards (not in my wildest dreams!). From the girl who went to college in Baltimore (to whom you apologized), it really was an honor. And though I really didn't like your namesake hotdog, I was impressed to see you eat the entire thing. You gave me the theatergoing experience of a lifetime—a story that I'm sure I will tell and retell to countless friends and strangers—but it was unfortunately unrelated to the quality of your show. 

Intentions (kind of...)

Given I'm a Broadway fanatic (I'd rather not admit it so openly, but I hear that's the first step to recovery), people usually ask me what my favorite musical is. When I was in high school, I came up with the perfect answer to this impossible question: Rent My Wicked Mamma (Mia)! It's a combination of Rent, Wicked, and Mamma Mia—about a green girl with AIDS who sings ABBA music. Well, the plans to write that musical fell through, but even so, I've continued to push musical theater-going habits to new extremes, especially now that I'm only an hour and a half from NYC.

Since in the past two years at Princeton, I've seen 29 shows (not all on Broadway; the number includes two shows at Baltimore's Hippodrome, an opera at the Met, 1776 at Ford's Theater DC, Ragtime at Niagara on the Lake, and the Rockettes), I figured I would at least write about them. These won't be "reviews," in strict terms. I wouldn't dream of telling people what to go see and hoping they would believe me. It will mostly just be a way for me to write what I thought of the shows I've seen, funny stories from the experiences (there are quite a few), and a place to record memories while they're still freshest. That's why I'm going to start with the most recent "Kinky Boots" and work backwards. By the time I'm home from Paris and Urbino this summer, maybe I'll have actually finished all 29!