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.