Fantasty Casting, Marvel Style

Because I'm impatient for the new season of Chuck to start next month, I was watching some early episodes last night and I realized that Yvonne Strahovski would be an amazing Black Widow. I don't know why I didn't think of that before. Her character on Chuck (his CIA handler) is not that dissimilar from the Black Widow (originally a Soviet spy who defected to the U.S.), and she certainly can portray someone that complicated. And she already kicks ass on Chuck, so she's got that covered.

Watching the show again after a few months has reminded me how well-written character of Sarah Walker is--she's incredibly strong and focused on her work without being bitchy or cold, and her vulnerable moments are subtle and genuine. Yvonne Strahovski deserves a lot of credit for that, too. As much as I wish I could see her in Iron Man 2 (or, while I'm dreaming, a Black Widow movie), I'm definitely looking forward to seeing where she takes her character in the upcoming season of Chuck (which, by the way, is a really smart, funny, and emotionally honest show that you should watch, especially since it has undercover government agents and a socially awkward protagonist).

This Is The Dream I Never Knew I Had

Lin-Manuel Miranda's latest project: The Hamilton Mixtape:



For some reason, Alexander Hamilton fans don't appear to be all that common. I know a lot of history geeks (and I'm one myself, albeit a more casual one), but only three of them are passionate about Alexander Hamilton, and I'm including myself in that count. I find that surprising. Growing up in a suburb of Boston meant an overexposure to all things Revolutionary War--I dressed up as a colonial girl more than once in elementary school, I could see a tavern from my house, and on Patriot's Day (you Massholes know what I'm talking about), gunshots from the early morning reenactment would wake me up. Living in all that history got old by sixth grade.

But Alexander Hamilton was different. His background, his determination, and his wholehearted commitment to pretty much everything has always made him stand out to me. There were plenty of strong-willed, brilliant, and passionate men working for independence, but there weren't any quite like Alexander Hamilton. He was badass.

Hamilton's life seems perfect for musical theatre--the man died in a duel!--so it's about time somebody tried making Hamilton sing. Lin-Manuel Miranda seems counter-intuitive; hip hop in the 1770s, really? But after listening to that opening number, I can't think of anyone better. I love the quiet tension underlying the song; it makes me think of a coiled spring that could snap at any moment, and it gives the number--and potentially the whole piece--a momentum and energy that suits Hamilton completely. Having Aaron Burr open the show, introducing the audience to Hamilton and the world of the musical, is a fascinating choice. I'm curious to see how that'll play out--does he narrate the whole show? I love that the music isn't period at all, as well.

In addition to capturing Hamilton's intense and independent personality, the music makes it very clear that this is not going to be a straightfoward look at a man's life. I know nothing of this project other than this song, but the music alone makes me expect a non-realistic world with its own set of rules. The music automatically causes audiences to see the story in modern terms, which I think is really cool. I feel early American history is often preserved behind museum glass. This music and these words shatter that glass and forces our history to live right alongside us, where it belongs.

International City; International Theatre

According to this Washington Post article, Washington D.C. is becoming much more of a center for international theatre. This has me really excited, even though I live in New York. It's definitely a good thing for other American cities to have strong theatre scenes--not everyone can get to New York--and I think it's especially important for cities like D.C. and Boston to have very distinct theatre scenes since they're so close to New York. Between the Kennedy Center, Arena Stage, and the Signature, there's a lot of really awesome things going on in that area. Adding international theatre will only make D.C. theatre more exciting, as well as keep it unique. Besides, it's only fitting, given the political nature of the city.

"You Know, I Could Go For A Slice."

As a whole, I'm not much of a fan of metatheatre, but I love metatheatrical techniques that work within the world of the story, instead of ones that remind you what you're seeing isn't real. The new Turtles Forever movie, which aired on the CW a little over a week or so ago to celebrate 25 years of Turtle Power, employs the former with an elegant amount of subtly and respect for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise as a whole.

Briefly, the story centers on the current incarnation of the Ninja Turtles, who recieved a revamped and modernized animated series in 2003. These Turtles sport larger muscles, face off against more serious enemies, and inhabit a far more interconnected world than than their predecessors from the 1987 TV series, with storyarcs running through multiple episodes. Early on in the movie, they rescue another set of Turtles--those from the 1987 series--and realize that the '87 turtles are from another dimension, and came into this dimension accidently. Unfortunately, the same is true for Shredder and Krang...and their Technodrome. Ultimately, all eight Turtles discover that the '03 version of Shredder plans to destroy all incarnations of Ninja Turtles in all universes by destroying the Prime universe.

I was a huge Turtles fan when I was a little kid, so I loved seeing the '87 Turtles intereact with the '03 ones. The juxtaposition of the goofy, pizza-addicted '87 Turtles and the darker world of the '03 Turtles gently pokes fun at how ridiculous the older series was while not making the '87 Turtles out to be buffoons. '87 Donatello's inventions and use of "science" baffles '03 Donatello, for instance, but those inventions somehow work.

When the Turtles reach the Prime universe, they encounter the original comic book versions of themselves--who are significantly darker than the '03 Turtles. It was fascinating to see the spectrum of Turtles, ranging from the original, almost gritty conception, to the silly TV series, to something in between. I think it's brilliant to acknowledge that all three versions--and many, many more--coexist in a greater multiverse. Crossing into other dimensions, as well as traveling through time, has long been a part of the Turtles franchise, so it stands to reason that alternate dimensions would have their own Turtles, too.

I was also struck by the vast difference in tone when both series were created for children. As much as I enjoyed the '87 Turtles series and the live action movies (andI still do), I'm really glad the material is being given a darker treatment, particularly since it's closer to the source material. I think Batman: The Animated Series and Justice League Unlimited did a lot to redefine what a children's Saturday morning cartoon can do, and I think it's really important to have those sorts of shows out there. Kids can handle more than a lot of adults think they can, and if they're given a show that's slightly more complex, they'll generally be able to keep up. I think that's particularly true when dealing with superheroes; it's hard to invest in a character whose powers give her an advantage over her enemies, since she doesn't have that much at stake. And when the superheroes in question are a bunch of mutant 15 year old turtles, each of them needs to have something worth losing--and be in an environment where that could feasibly happen. In the 2003 series--one in which characters have died--that's certainly the case.

Ethnicity & Writing

One of my friends, fiction writer Stephany Qiouyi Lu, wrote this as a note on Facebook (you can see the original here). It's generated such a great discussion over there that I wanted to repost it here for all of you. This issue has particular meaning for me: I'm white Irish-Italian who writes a lot of Asian characters, and I plan on taking (and writing under) my first generation Chinese boyfriend's name after we're married. So I'm going to be dealing with the flip side of a lot of this stuff.

On ethnicity, writing, and racialized creations as a whole.

What does it mean to be a minority in the United States trying to forge a path in creative writing?

If you are an author from an ethnic minority in the United States, there is an implicit expectation that you will be writing about your ethnic background. It will be embedded in your words: you are expected to write about the [fill in the blank]-American experience, or, if not that, it will be expected that your characters—one of them, at least—will be of your ethnic background. The content of your novel will be predicted on the basis of your last name, or, if your name blends in with the ethnic majority, by the picture of yourself that is included on the back of the novel with a little blurb about yourself—probably also with subtle emphasis on your ethnic background.

A brief glance at Wikipedia's list of Asian-American authors (found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Asian-American_authors

) shows that almost all of them write about something related to the Asian-American experience, or to Asian experiences as a whole; the number that write outside those topics can be counted on one hand. That's the expectation, and that's the reality.

Many of these authors are immigrants themselves, having been born in another country. With this context, it's understandable that they write about the immigrant experience, or the Asian-American experience—that's made up a fundamental portion of their life. It's an important topic to them. They are the older generation, in their forties or so; they are at the age where they have developed the talent and maturity to get published, so they have shaped the face of Asian-American literature thus far.

But what does this mean for people like me, a first-generation Asian-American?

I fit in in Southern California—I am surrounded by first-generation [fill in the blank]-Americans. Our experiences are not unique. We, the hyphenated Americans, are the majority, not the minority. We are the ones who find ourselves creeping into the "heritage" language courses in college. The ones who feel a sense of embarrassment when we speak in broken Mandarin, Cantonese, Korean, Spanish, Tagalog, Hindi, Gujarati, whatever language with our grandparents. The ones who are distanced from the immigrants because we're not "fobby" enough. We are comfortable in a state of limbo.

But what about when I'm taken out of that context? In North Carolina, I have become the minority, not the majority. The people I'm surrounded by have been in the States for generations upon generations. I am inundated by American culture and find that I have to ask for explanations regarding the definition and relevance of many cultural terms; meanwhile, I am expected to know details of the Chinese culture that I was never really taught. When I am in China, meanwhile, I am familiar enough with the culture to recognize the larger cultural symbols. I feel a sense of comfort when I'm surrounded by delicious Chinese food and by the sights and smells of those places. Yet, at the same time, I'm still a minority among the people of my blood. The way I dress, the way I talk, even the way I walk, places a giant label on me that says that I'm not really Chinese—I can be spotted from far away as being an outsider. I do not yet belong in Chinese culture.

But is this what I'm supposed to write about? As a first-generation Chinese-American, born in the United States, raised in a bastardization of Chinese and American culture, am I limited in my topics to just the first-generation Asian-American experience? Is that what I can write with "authenticity"?

When I look through my pieces of creative writing through the years, I've come to realize that I have created perhaps three or five characters—out of the dozens, hundreds of characters that I've dreamt up since when I started scribbling stories at the age of five or so—that can even claim something of a semblance to an Asian background. Their ethnicity is never emphasized. Perhaps the only thing that gives them away is their name, "exotic" compared to the names of other characters.

All my other characters are white. Why is this? Is it that I have been inundated by images from American television, where white actors and actresses are the absolute majority, and where characters of ethnic minorities are added as novelty items to increase an image of "diversity"? Is it because all the novels I read, and enjoy reading, are written by white, British or American authors, who also make the ethnicity of their characters implicit? Is it because all of this culture that I've been immersed in has taught me that white characters are the default and that characters of ethnic minorities are the exception, the novelty? Is it because any character who is not white is immediately labeled with their ethnicity and seen through that lens, with their physical appearance preceding any internal qualities—and who are often expected to fit into ethnic stereotypes?

Is the fact that the majority of my characters end up being white necessarily bad? Is it just as much of a stereotype, an ethnic obligation, an imposition by the majority—my future readers—to say that I must make my characters of my ethnic background, or that I must write about my experiences as a first-generation Chinese-American, so that I can "challenge the hegemony of the white majority"? Are my stories—and the stories of my first-generation Asian-American friends, whose characters also appear to be implicitly white—just meant to be case studies on minority assimilation into a larger, predominantly white American culture?

This is not to say that I want to be white. Although I dissociate myself from campus organizations such as ASA (Asian Students Association) and CASA (Chinese-American Students Association), that is not because of a shame towards my background, but rather because I simply don't hang out with the people who frequent those groups. I have pride in my background, and, the more time passes, the more my ethnicity becomes an integral part of who I am and how I shape myself.

What my fundamental question is is: Must fiction be racialized? Does my last name have to shape the context and content of my novel? Does the way my face looks—eyes where my crease folds back into my lid, a tiny nose, the yellowish tint to my skin that defies the black–white dichotomy—need to shape the way my characters look? Is ethnicity even all that relevant to the topics that I like exploring, such as the relationships (romantic, platonic, antagonistic, everything) between people and the human emotions and thoughts that back those; do human feelings need to be seen through a lens of race? Am I obligated to include a character of an Asian background in my novels—and, if not, why do I still feel obligated to do so? Why is the visible presence of ethnicity that important, anyway?

On one hand, the United States, mirroring other liberal Western societies, strives to be more inclusive of people of different racial and ethnic backgrounds. At the same time, there are more and more explorations, academic and nonacademic alike, of the topics of race and ethnicity, particularly in the context of the question if identity—works of fiction, works of art, works of music, anything that a person can possibly do is analyzed through a lens of race. On one hand, it is important to understand people of other cultures—yet, on the other hand, how much of this race-oriented analysis serves to simply heighten the visibility of race and drive more divisions, more classifications, more preemptive judgement and labeling based on one's physical appearance?

Not Since Carrie

This month, there's going to be a private reading of Carrie, which is crazy. The show, a musical adaptation of the Stephen King story, has become infamous as the flop to end all flops. So why bring it back?

I think it's good not to write off a show as being a total disaster so long as there's a compelling story at its core, and the success of the novel and movie alone indicates that's the case with Carrie. The writers have apparently been doing a lot of work on it--not easy to do even when the show in question hasn't been publicly ridiculed for twenty years--and hopefully their changes will enhance the show's effective moments. I'm not sure it'll go anywhere, but I'm glad it's given a chance at all. If nothing else, revisiting Carrie encourages writers not to give up on a story they want to tell. No matter how big a flop the original show may be.

A Little Night Landsbury

I will never say anything against Angela Landsbury. One of my clearest memories of my grandmother, who died when I was in fifth grade, is of us watching Murder, She Wrote together. I wasn't even aware of Landsbury's stage work until college (my parents are non-theatregoing scientists, what do you want from me) and I'm lukewarm about her performance in Sweeney Todd (sorry guys), but I completely respect her as an actress and don't begrudge her any of her well-earned awards and acclaim. But seriously...why is she in the Little Night Music revival? I saw her in Deuce and heard firsthand accounts of her in Blithe Spirit, and I just feel sorry for the woman. Good for her for wanting to act at her age, but she just seemed so tired and out of it in those plays, it was sad. I'm not advocating a retirement age for theatre--there are plenty of older performers, writers, directors, and whatever who are going strong, like Arthur Laurents and Chita Rivera (both of them could easily destroy me in a cagematch)--but when you consistently can't remember your lines, maybe you should take a break. I realize she'll only have to sing one very slow song, but still. It's hard to recover from going up on your lyrics. I just hope she makes it through her run okay.

I Buried My Heart In The Ground

The Ragtime revival is extraordinary. I saw the third preview Saturday night, and I was emotionally overwhelmed in the opening number. The show is one of my favorites, though I missed the original Broadway production (I saw the Papermill production a few summers ago as well as a local production up in Boston), so I know it very well. This production, however, makes the material feel entirely new. Every moment is so engaging that the show flies by--it doesn't feel anywhere near its 2 hours and 45ish minutes.

The biggest change from the original, judging from the cast album (and from the other productions I've seen, which seemed similar in tone), is how much more relaxed this Ragtime is. The show on the cast album feels very heightened and a little self-important. There's a sense of "This is an Important American Drama!"that makes me feel a little more removed from the characters than I'd like.

This revival is completely the opposite . All the characters feel approachable, and they embrace the humorous and awkward moments in the show--of which there are more than a few. Ron Bohmer as Father is a perfect example of this. I always thought Father was kind of pompous and rigid, but Ron's Father is so caring and sincere. It's evident that Father isn't a bigot, but a man unable to keep up with the changes around him. Christiane Noll also brings out the awkward beautifully as Mother, especially in her exasperation with Edgar.

Speaking of Christiane Noll, her determination for Mother to be more than who she was centers the character for me. The lines "What of the people whose boundaries chafe/Who marry so bravely and end up so safe?" tell you everything you need to know about Mother, and I found that idea at the heart of Christiane's portrayal. This Mother doesn't come to realize she needs her independence; she realizes she needs it back. That made the character much more real for me. I was also really surprised to discover how much Mother has in common with one of my characters in my thesis musical. They actually go on the same kind of journey, even though I hadn't thought about Mother (or Ragtime, really) at all while writing.

This Ragtime is awkward, but it's also intense. Bobby Steggert is an eerily intense Younger Brother, which I love, and Quentin Earl Darrington and Stephanie Umoh are both pretty crazy as Coalhouse and Sarah. Their almost wild passion--for life in general, not just for each other--drives their storyline, which is heartbreaking. Quentin makes Coalhouse--one of my favorite characters--menancing and scary, particularly towards the end. That was the first time I'd gotten chills at the sight of Coalhouse and his men holed up in the library.

One of the most painful (in the best way!) moments for me was "Your Daddy's Son." It's a beautiful song beause of its ugliness. I can't fathom writing a song that accomplishes what that one does: it has to introduce us to Sarah and make us relate to her while explaining why she buried her newborn child alive. Stephanie Umoh never once makes Sarah a bitch or a victim, nor does she ask for pity. There's anger in her performance, certainly, particularly when singing that Coalhouse "had other tunes to play." But that song is really Sarah asking forgiveness in the most emotionally honest, straightforward way imaginable. "God wants no excuses," she admits to her infant,

"I had only one:
You had your daddy's hands.
Forgive me.
You were your daddy's son."

Let Your Freak Flag Fly

I'm a little sad Shrek is closing in January. I'm not surprised, but I hoped the show would hang on a little longer. It's a solid, heartfelt show that's edgier than the movie in many ways. The seediness of the fairy tale characters alone is enough to make it not a kids' show, although it's certainly one slightly older kids and teenagers would enjoy.

What impressed me about Shrek was its intelligence. From wisely replacing the film's many pop culture references with theatrical ones to David Lindsay-Abaire's clever yet entirely character-appropriate lyrics, Shrek creates a full world I could believe exists off as well as onstage--and it does this without talking down to its audience or lazily relying on people's familiarity with the film.

It's also got a straightforward yet actually kind of insightful message: that being yourself and having a community are sometimes one and the same. Unlike Wicked, which encourages audience members who don't fit in to reject their community, Shrek suggests that celebrating your individuality can actually help you fit in--when the group in question is made up of similiar misfits, at least. I think that's a more mature way to deal with not being able to relate to mainstream culture. There are plenty of times where cutting ties with those around you and being on your own can be healthier, but humans are inherently social, and cultivating a me-vs.-the world mentality is pretty negative. Shrek is assurance that no matter what kind of a freak you are, you'll find other freaks to accept you.

The Movie In My Mind

Oh man, how excited am I for a Miss Saigon movie?! I will be so sad if this doesn't happen. Miss Saigon is one of my favorite shows, and the first time I saw it (the U.S. tour six years ago) was one of the most incredible theatregoing experiences I had. Even though I knew it was based on Madame Butterfly, I was so immersed in the show the ending shocked me, and I couldn't believe it was over. That's the only time I've ever felt a show had more to say in terms of plot, and I totally thought there was a whole other act--that's how badly I wanted to know what happened to the Engineer.

I also think Miss Saigon is perfect for film . It feels extremely cinematic anyway ("The American Dream," hello!), and I think the added realism of film--namely, having a realistic setting instead of sets on a stage--will ground the story in the grittiness that's there, but not always noticed. Big, spectacle-driven musicals aren't generally my thing, but certain stories need to be told on a large scale, and Miss Saigon is one of them (offhand, two others are Ragtime and Sunset Boulevard). I've seen a small production of Miss Saigon and was thrilled to see how effective it was, but this is a big story with big emotions during a hugely powerful time with characters who do rash, crazy things, and film can capture that incredibly well.

At the same time, I hope a film version conveys the intimacy of the piece. At its core, Miss Saigon is a character piece for me; it's hard to care about the show if you don't care about Kim and/or the Engineer. I think a smart film adaptation would balance the show's grandness with its passionate and complicated characters, similar to how the Sweeney Todd film did--and, I'd argue, Dreamgirls to an extent. Spectacle and substance aren't mutually exclusive, and a well done Miss Saigon film could be proof of that.

And really, when you get right down to it, seeing "You Will Not Touch Him" on a big screen will be amazing.

Talking Back

I'm writing from the gorgeous Caribbean island of Grenada, where I'm visiting my boyfriend who's here for medical school.  Most of the past two days have been spent on campus, which has been great for me because it means I'm getting writing done while he's studying (although admittedly, I haven't been all that productive so far, but I don't leave until Friday and it's only Tuesday, and I've been working like crazy since early July, so this is my vacation, dammit).  

Anyway, I want to talk about this encouraging NYT article on post-show talkbacks.  Like the author of the article, I'm not sure how effective a marketing strategy talkbacks are--I doubt someone who wasn't interesting in seeing Oleanna, say, rushed out to buy tickets once the talkbacks were announced--but I think they're an immensely powerful tool in getting people to think about theatre in an immediate, personal way.  During my college years in Boston, I went to a fair number of talkbacks, including one with Jason Robert Brown after the Speakeasy's production of The Last Five Years and ones after each reading in the Huntington's new play festival, Breaking Ground.  Boston theatre is very, very good about talkbacks, even though they have varying results.  There were definitely times where I found the audience's questions--or pronouncements, as was often the case--frustrating, but overall, I'm glad talkbacks are such a part of the Boston theatre scene, and I'd love for New York theatre to follow suit. 

One of the amazing and valuable things about theatre in general and Broadway in particular is its accessibility.  I didn't grow up watching very much TV or movies, and there are still huge gaps in my pop culture education, to the point where I don't know who the majority of movie and television stars are or what they've been in.  Consequently, I don't really understand idolizing film and TV actors, especially since I'm so used to theatre, where you can see the cast of the show you just saw on the subway on your way home.  But even TV and film stars, who are usually separated from the public by a lens or a bodyguard or the glossy pages of a magazine, are accessible onstage.  There's something special about being in the same room as an actor, about breathing the same air and watching them go through those emotions in real time, right in front of you.  

Talkbacks take things a step further by making not only the actors accessible, but the material, as well.  To stick with the Oleanna example, having experts in fields relevant to the play's subject matter clearly states that the the issues in the play are rooted in the real world.  Moreover--and more importantly--being able to share their opinions with experts validates the audiences' reaction to the play and directly makes them a part of the action.  A lively post-show discussion rife with disagreements and even tension makes the audience more invested in the characters than they may otherwise be, and forces everyone to think more about why they had the reactions they did.  I'm not sure that people are necessarily used to discussing theatre and movies on their way home, or that a lot of people are all that comfortable arguing about what they'd seen.  Some works lend themselves more to post-show discussions, certainly, but I'm hoping talkbacks help create an environment where thinking critically about what you just saw and talking about it becomes the norm for something like Shrek or Julia & Julie (both of which I think are significantly smarter than they're given credit for) in addition to intense works like Oleanna or District 9.  There's always something to say about a story, and every reaction is worth examining and defending.  I don't think any creative experience is really complete without that.  

Usually, I Make Things More Depressing!

I'm a bit of a freak in that I'm a bookwriter who's not really into plays. I don't have anything against them, and I have a lot of respect for playwrights for doing all that writing without a collaborator, but I almost always wish somebody would start singing. That probably means I should definitely be writing musicals and not plays (although I've written more plays than musicals at this point in life), but even amongst fellow bookwriters and lyricists, I'm an oddity. There are plenty of plays I enjoy, and there are a few I feel very strongly about, but I just don't connect to plays as easily as I connect to musicals.

That being said, I make it a point to read plays, since that's a good way to learn a lot about plot and structure. I hadn't done so in a while--lately I've been reading a lot of comics and non-fiction books about the medical field, which is apparently what happens when your boyfriend is away in med school--but last night I picked up my copy of Six Yuan Plays. I'd needed it for a play structure class I took in undergrad, but hadn't looked at it since.

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed many of the plays. I often have a hard time with very stylized plays, and this type of ancient Chinese drama is stylized like ridiculous. Something about the way it was done, though, combined with the seriousness of the plays' subject matter, really clicked for me. In particular, I found The Orphan of Chao hilarious. It's about the attempted extermination of a royal family and how an infant son is the only member to survive. There are two suicides in the first few pages, the brutal beating of an old man, the threat of infanticide, and LOTS of vengence, so it's not like, you know, Mel Brooks. But the contrast between the horrific events of the play and the calmly direct language of the characters keeps it from being heavy and depressing. I kept expecting someone to react to a suicide with, "Oh, great, you kill yourself now? That's productive." Not that the characters are obnoxious and self-centered--they're not--but it's that kind of absurd, understated kind of world that feels very modern in a lot of ways.

Not all the plays struck me as funny in that way, and I don't know if any of them were meant to be. It's possible I was reading it too much through my own lens. Regardless of whether I totally misinterpreted the text and tone of the plays--especially The Orphan of Chao--it taught me a lot about dark comedy, and it's made me curious about ancient Chinese drama. And any of those plays I read last night would make great musicals :)

It's Not Called "Legally Distracted."

I find this video promoting the London Legally Blonde kind of weird and really cheesy. I love Legally Blonde, for the record. I still haven't seen the movie (though I mean to) and was skeptical about the subject matter, but since Larry O'Keefe and Nell Benjamin (he of Bat Boy, both of the smart musical adaptations of Sarah, Plain & Tall and Cam Jansen) were writing the score, I figured it couldn't be all that bad. And it's not at all. In fact, the show has a lot of fascinating things to say about gender expectations and identity, and I'm still obsessed with some of the lyrics.

"So Much Better" is one of my favorite songs from the show, not to mention a huge dramatic moment for Elle, so I'm definitely glad the London production is featuring it in that video. But why not show Sheridan Smith actually performing the number onstage? Why have this bizzare quasi-music video thing? Why does Sheridan appear in different costumes throughout the same number? Why the all-white background? Why the random cuts to various cast members? I get why they'd want to show the other characters, but why not intersperse Sheridan's performance of "So Much Better" with clips from other parts of the show? That's not only standard marketing, but it's exactly what the Broadway production did two years ago. The Broadway production also a video with Laura Bell Bundy performing "So Much Better" onstage--the whole number, without any cutaways. I watched that video so many times it was embarassing, and so did a lot of my friends.

I'm not sure what to make of this. Are the London marketing team simply trying to make the show seem as dynamic as possible, hoping to tap into the teenage girl demograph that has helped make Wicked an international phenomenon? If so, I can't help but feel a little insulted. Granted, I'm too old to be their target audience, but I was a teenage girl not that long ago, and I've been working with that age group since I was barely out of it myself. You don't need a lot of video acrobatics to get a teenage girl's attention, especially not the kinds of girls who'd want to see a Broadway musical in the first place. I mean, high school girls have been belting out "On My Own" for the past twenty years, and Eponine delivers that number alone on a bare stage. Aside from the fact that I don't think the show is only meant for teen girls, and I think it's kind of sexist and patronizing to claim it is just because it's about a pretty blonde 22 year old who loves designer clothes and the color pink.

Many New York critics failed to give Legally Blonde and its fans the respect they deserve. I hate to see its own marketing team do the same.

Although, I Did See Chita Rivera & Brian Stokes Mitchell!

This past Sunday was one of those annual events the Broadway community eagerly looks forward to: the Broadway Care/Equity Fights AIDS Flea Market. The Broadway Flea Market is basically theatre geek heaven: tables upon tables of Playbills (ranging from rare and ancient to last season's); scripts; sheet music; t-shirts, hats, mugs, window cards, and any other show merchandise you can possibly think of; signs and props from recently closed shows; costumes; random backstage items (I now own a scale from someone's dressing room at Wicked); and of course, baked goods.

I missed last year's because I'd been out of state, but the year before had been my first time there, and I'd gone a little crazy. Did I really need the conductor's score of Ballroom from the original Broadway production? Considering I've never heard a song from that show...not really. Did that stop me from bidding $70 on it in a silent auction? Of course not. This year's Ridiculous Silent Auction Bid, by the way, was the Starlight Express Broadway Bear, which I put down $65 for (I lost...and I can't decide if I'm happy about that). Starlight Express aside (seriously though, there was no way I could have resisted that...it's STARLIGHT EXPRESS. The bear had ROLLER SKATES. And it was Dinah!), I was drastically more controlled this year, partly because I've been saving my money for my (rapidly approaching!) week in Grenada, and partly because there really wasn't much that grabbed me.

In all fairness, I didn't look that hard. Usually, the Broadway Flea Market is held outside, in Shubert Alley and I think on 45th Street (I never remember what theatres are on what streets; I function entirely by sight in that area). This year, due to the apparently 100% chance of rain, it took place indoors: specifically, Roseland Ballroom on 52nd St. I'm glad they moved it indoors instead of cancelling it, but I really didn't enjoy that very much. Outside, the Flea Market didn't feel nearly as crowded as it actually was; it was easy to get away from the mobbed areas, and more importantly, everything could breathe--people and items like. I felt like I had enough space to flip through boxes of Playbills for fifteen minutes, even though four other people were flipping through the exact same box. I was able to dart in and grab an item I could barely see but knew I had to have. I could find people I knew easily, and I could have conversations with them.

None of those things were true this year. I like Roseland a lot--it's got a kind of older feel to it that I respond to--but the lighting was horribly dark, making hunting through boxes more of a challenge. Since everything and everyone--including the non-silent auction--was confined to essentially one big room (there was barely anything in the downstairs area when I was there), making the place very loud and very cramped. It was difficult to find a place to stand and have a conversation without being in everyone's way, and it was hard to find people in general or keep from losing them in the crowd. The tables were spread out enough so they didn't feel like they were on top of each other, but the smaller space and poor lighting made browsing through items a less than pleasant experience. I think part of the problem was the nature of the flow of people, which really couldn't be helped due to the table setup, which was due in turn to the spacial limitations.

I've been to indoor ComicCons--one huge (New York) and one significantly smaller (Boston)--but both had far better lighting, and even Boston felt far more spacious. I'm almost positive that Boston ComicCon had more tables and items (and possibly people--I was at the Flea Market in the afternoon, when it had thinned out), but it didn't feel as cramped because there were multiple rooms, including ones with far fewer people. Honestly though, just having the space be brighter would have done a lot to make Roseland feel more open.

I don't want to sound ungrateful, because I'm not at all. I love the Broadway Flea Market, and I am always happy to give BC/EFA my money--it's an important cause and one that I particularly feel connected to, given that I write musicals for a career. It's pretty amazing the Flea Market staff was able to get everything moved to Roseland and set up on time when they literally had a day to do it, and as far as I could see, everything went smoothly. I'm glad I went, and I'm already looking forward to next year's. Only, can we please have it outdoors from now on? Or at least turn up the lights?

Lip Service

If you haven't seen FOX's new awkward musical series, Glee, I strongly urge you to do so. Immediately. The writing never once lets its specific comedic style get in the way of the characters' emotions, it's filled with all sorts of little details that are hilarious (like the pamphlets in the guidance counselor's office bearing titles such as Divorce: Why Your Parents Stopped Loving You and My Mom's Bipolar And She Won't Stop Yelling), and it's easily got the most diverse cast I've ever seen on network TV. In the second episode alone, there are four Asian characters! FOUR! And three are series regulars! Including a football coach! Amazing.

Speaking of casting, Glee is already a theatre geek's dream. Last night's episode saw Debra Monk and a bow-tied Victor Garber as Matthew Morrison's parents. Let's stop and look at that sentence again. Debra Monk. Victor Garber. Matthew Morrison. ALL RELATED. I would love to be at that dinner table. Of course, there was also Tony winner John Lloyd Young and Josh Groban. And series regular Lea Michele, whose character I keep hoping will say "This is my father, he speaks for both of us." I've also heard that Kristin Chenoweth will be on the show, if that happens, she really needs to sing. If she can sing a little bit of "My Funny Valentine" on The West Wing, she can certainly do a full number on Glee.

I have one reservation about the show, however: the lip-synching. I mean, really? Really? You have all that Broadway talent, and they're not singing live? I do understand that with television lip-synching can be necessary, especially because of all the choreography. And that choreography is why it doesn't bother me as much as it normally would; it's not like I'm distracted by their lips when they're running around the stage. But what does bother me is that at least with some numbers, I really don't think it's the actors singing. And these are performance numbers. If it were internal, fantasty musical number sequences--like Mercedes' inner production number, "Bust the Windows"--I'd be on board, no question. But when the characters are supposed to be singing in Glee's version of the real world? No way. The use of music throughout the show--which deserves its own (forthcoming!) post--is fascinating, and is a huge part of what makes that world so appealing for me. The excessive lip-synching--and lack of the actors' own singing, if that's in fact the case for at least some of the numbers--pulls me out of the show at the exact moments I should be most invested.

Lip-synching isn't enough to keep me away from such a smart show, especially when it puts musical theatre front and center. But for a lot of people who also prefer to see and hear things live--like the theatre fans who should be Glee's perfect audience--it may be.

Theatre Songs You CAN Hear On The Radio

I'm really excited that Green Day's 2004 album, American Idiot, now has a stage version--that's been generating a lot of buzz as it starts performances at Berkeley Rep. I admittedly haven't listened to the album, though I was mildly obsessed with Green Day in middle school (I still know all the words to all the songs on Dookie and Nimrod), but I'm just happy that a band that's so much a part of popular culture is taking musical theatre so seriously. Green Day's albums have always felt cohesive to me, and the juxtaposition between happy, upbeat music and lyrics ranging from bitter to angry to resigned has always been my favorite thing about the band. Letting the music say one thing and the lyrics another is also very characteristic of musical theatre. Between that and their use of specific imagery in very character-driven lyrics, a concept album like American Idiot seemed inevitable to me.

I also really like the idea that musical theatre is something that anyone with a story to tell can create. Having legitimate rock stars like Green Day and Bono, who's composing Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, put the time, energy, and hard work into musical theatre helps undermine the notion that musical theatre is exclusively jazz hands and overwrought ballads. (And I love jazz hands and overwrought ballads, but I would NOT love an art form that consisted of nothing else.) Even if American Idiot were a smash hit on Broadway, it won't make musical theatre as popular as it once was, and it won't make a nation of 16 year olds consider it cool. But it absolutely will make some people--adults as well as teenagers--give theatre a chance.

Most importantly, however, the Green Day guys all seem to have respect for the art form. It's not something they're doing just to be huge in another medium or a seemingly easy way to make some more cash. According to this New York Times article, lead singer Billie Joe Armstrong actually grew up with musicals--which is more than I can say, and I have musical theatre degree! The fact that American Idiot is a concept album, like The Who's Tommy, also makes me believe that they're doing this project because they have a story, and they feel this is the best way to tell it. I'd be more apprehensive if they were trying to make a musical out of their radio hits, say.

I'm going to listen to American Idiot as soon as I can get a copy, and I'm definitely excited to see what comes of the show. With Elton John currently having two musicals on Broadway, Duncan Sheik and Steven Slater's Spring Awakening practically sweeping the Tonys two years ago, and Regina Spektor working on a Broadway-bound musical, the term "theatre music" is beginning to expand. The rock Next to Normal and hip-hop infused In the Heights--both Tony winners for Best Score, both currently on Broadway, and both written by writers who are very much of the theatre--are evidence of that. As a former metalhead who can recite the score of Sunset Boulevard, contemporary rock and pop music on Broadway is something I'm thrilled to see. Just so long as artists from other genres give musical theatre the respect it deserves.

I Always Knew Deadpool Was A Disney Princess

I've waited to talk about Disney buying Marvel because I wanted to get all the freaking out over it out of my system before attempting to discuss it rationally. Even now that I've had the week to let it sink in, I feel extremely mixed about it. I think it has the potential to be really awesome, but it could easily be pretty horrendous.

The good stuff first:

• THINK OF THE CROSSOVERS. The idea of two huge, deeply developed universes being united is filled with endless exciting creative possibilities. You've seen the mashups by now, but I think they're more than just an excercise in hilarious and unlikely juxtaposition. They're a glimpse into how we as a society try to make sense of colliding and seemingly contradictory mythologies. I think it's fascinating that something like Darkwing Duck teaming up with Daredevil is nearly universally considered to be amazing when normally when childhood images and associations merge with adult ones, it's generally kind of creepy and unsettling at the least. I think the difference is that comics--especially superheroes--have always lived comfortably on the barrier between being for kids and being intensely adult. There have been X-Men cartoons and video games designed for kids, for example, and the movies are definitely appropriate for middle schoolers, but the recent Wolverine vs. Hulk (which this female thoroughly enjoyed) seems specifically for the 18-30 male demographic.

• Marvel animated/Pixar movies. I'm really excited about this. I'm a big fan of hand-drawn, 2D animation, so while I love many of the Pixar films, I don't think that animation style should be the default--I think you need to let the story determine its form. Comics, though, lend themselves to that very well, in my opinion, particularly superheroes. I think a title like Runaways (careful, that summary has spoilers!) would be perfect for Pixar. And maybe finally we'd get a Pixar movie with female leads for once!
  
  
• Speaking of female characters, Alyssa suggests that Disney could use its influence with young girls to promote Marvel female characters. That was actually one of my first thoughts on this whole issue, and I think that could be a really positive counter to the overwhelming Disney Princesses push. I'm not sure how likely this is when possibly the most active, gender-stereotype breaking female Disney lead, Mulan, is virtually nonexistent in Disney merchandising. I spent an entire weekend at Disney World searching for Mulan merchandise, and all I found was Mulan cell phone jewlery. If that's the respect Disney pays to its own ass-kicking heroine--the girl practically saved China herself!--it's a pretty discouraging precedent. However, there are smaller titles that Disney could easily get behind, such as the aforementioned Runaways and of course Spider-Man Loves Mary Jane (can we please have an animated movie of this title?!). Even Spectacular Spider-Man is pretty "girl-friendly," and Disney is now in a great position to ensure the future of that show.

Now here's what I'm afraid of:

• Disney exercising creative control. A title like the violent and foul-mouthed NEXTWAVE doesn't exactly jive with the Disney image. I'm also worried that writers, such as NEXTWAVE and Astonishing X-Men's Warren Ellis, will refuse to write for Marvel out of fear of (or the reality of) censorship. The main Marvel universe is a fairly terrifying place in many ways: Norman Osborne is President, for one thing. I'm all for having family-friendly titles, but Marvel properties have a long history of being rooted in the world we know; their villians are in real places, like Los Angeles and New York. There's a hopefulness in DC comics--and a feeling that there are people out there, taking care of you--that doesn't exist in Marvel. And as much as I love Batman and Green Lantern, I'm glad there's the Marvel universe as an alternative. (Not that Batman is rainbows and fuzzy bunnies...and not that the Gaurdians aren't jerkfaces.) Disney, as far as I know, is pretty good about being hands off; that's how they are with Pixar, and as I understand it, the stage adaptations of their animated films. Disney also recognizes talented people when they have them, as anyone who's seen Julie Taymor's work on The Lion King can attest. So while I don't seriously think Disney will force Norman Osborne's insanity to simply be the result of unresolved daddy issues, I'll need time to be completely reassured.

• The death of smaller, less commercially viable titles. I promise I know titles that are not Runaways, but that's been such a great example for much of this post, and I really cannot mention it enough because of how brilliant it is. Anyway, that's an example of a title that didn't seem that it'd make any money, and it was actually cancelled at one point (it was brought back, luckly). Now, it's doing pretty well, and is generally considered to be very, very well written; Joss Whedon has even written for it. With Disney now owning Marvel, I'm worried there's an even greater chance that titles like Runaways won't get any support, if they're even published in the first place. It's hard enough to get new titles featuring new characters done; when you have a huge corporation in control--one that owns many other companies, in addition to yours--it'll only get more difficult. I think I'm most concerned about this. It's the most likely to happen, and I think it has the worst consequences. New voices are crucial in any art form, and nobody benefits--not audiences, not other writers, and certainly not the art form--when those voices are shut out.

I'm curious to see how this will shake out. As I've said, this has the potential for a ridiculous amount of creativity, and it could change Marvel--and Disney--for the better. Especially if it enables Marvel characters to sing in animated features or onstage. Are you listening, Disney Theatricals?

Sorry, August Wilson

The LA Times has an interesting and slightly disturbing (to me, at least) article that wonders if white directors should direct "black plays" (meaning, plays written by black playwrights). The article specifically refers to August Wilson, who only allowed black directors to do his work. With the Broadway revival of Joe Turner's Come and Gone, Bartlet Sher became the first and only non-black director to have worked on an August Wilson piece--setting a precedent that worries some people.

The article contains quotations in defense of racially matching directors with writers. The main point--that directors who aren't white are almost never on the radar when the piece is by somebody who is--is definitely valid, and it's an issue that really bothers me. But playwright/director Charles Randolph-Wright remarking that "Now I won't even get the black project" worries me. The idea that there are "black plays" and "white plays" really makes me uneasy; it implies that your race determines who is going to connect to your work, and that is not my experience at all. I also think that entrenches the ghettoization of minorities in theatre, and that just makes the problem worse.

Sheldon Epps, the artistic director of Pasadena Playhouse, sums up his position--and mine--perfectly: "I don't have a problem with it aesthetically. I have a problem with it in actuality. When there is a free flow in both directions, then it is no issue at all to me." I'm not sure what the best way to achieve that free flow in both directions, but I don't think eliminating any flow at all is the solution.

Speaking of West Side Story...

Alyssa alerted me to this crazy MTV West Side Story parody, and after watching it twice, I actually kind of enjoy it. It's ridiculous, and I find the Katy Perry section incomprehensible--she's hacking at those bushes like they're about to attack her--but that's part of the fun. Something about its weirdness reminds me of how MTV used to be, or at least how I thought of it from the late '80s to mid-'90s. It was definitely cool and mainstream, but there was a kind of off-beat, countercultural element. The largely music video-based programming had a lot to do with that, and so did the shows: pretty much everyone around my age misses Daria.

I think maybe the unexpectedness of this ad and the complete dedication to the song's highly performative nature brought back some of that quirkiness for me. I mean, West Side Story is incredibly well-known and loved even by people who aren't theatre fans, but it's never been exactly cool. For MTV to use musical theatre in this way is kind of awesome. I even think a lot of it is well done. The opening vamp sounds fantastic, and I love the musical differences between the "Jets" and the "Sharks." And it's not making fun of the song, the show, or theatre in general; if anything, MTV is making a little fun of itself.

I Write Songs, Too!

I don't want to turn this blog into a vehicle of self-promotion, but in case anyone wants to hear my work, my song "Mandarin" (lyrics by me, music by the brilliant Julianne Wick Davis) will be performed in Songs by Ridiculously Talented Composers and Lyricists You Probably Don't Know But Should, a cabaret at Barrington that Bill Finn puts together every year. He teaches a master lyric writing class in the Graduate Musical Theatre Writing Program at NYU, and the cabaret is made up of his favorite material from current and previous students. I'm really excited something of mine is included this year, especially since this particlar song is very personal.

And while you're out there, check out Memory Is The Mother Of All Wisdom, a two-person musical with words by my friend and classmate, Sara Cooper, and music by my thesis collaborator, Zach Redler.

The cabaret is September 4-5, and Memory is playing September 5-6. Pittsfield, MA is pretty isolated, but you're in for some great theatre if you make the trip.

Un Lenguaje Asi

I'm pretty disappointed to hear that the current Broadway revival of West Side Story has changed some lyrics back into English. I'm fairly lukewarm about that show in general (don't hate me, my devotion to Gypsy more than makes up for it, I promise), and while I haven't heard the greatest things about this production (which I haven't seen), just the idea of having the Sharks sing and speak in Spanish has excited me from the beginning. If this is a deeply passionate story about deeply passionate people, of course these characters should be using their native language. I feel that's even more critical when the racial and cultural differences between characters ignite the story in the first place. How can Anita insist that Maria "stick to [her] own kind" if we only hear her speak English? Moreover, Anita's such a fascinating character herself that her ability to switch from Spanish to English would add tremendously to her arc. An all Spanish "A Boy Like That," for example, would be even more chilling if her "America" had been entirely in English.

Theatre--musical theatre in particular--lends itself amazingly well to playing with language in that way. All language has an inherent musicality; say the same phrase enough times consecutively, and its meaning will fade, leaving its rhythm and pitch behind. I love going to my parish's Italian Mass for that reason; that's also why I really enjoy listening to Jpop. When I listen to a language I don't understand, I hear the musicality of speech much more clearly. When I listen to lyrics in another language, I listen to the words as I listen to the music--which lyrics really are, anyway.

The best, most recent example of that in musical theatre is The Light in the Piazza, which boldly included entire songs and scenes in Italian. I don't know anyone who had trouble figuring out the story as a result, not even my non-theatregoing parents when they saw the PBS broadcast. For me, the show has a great deal to do with who understands you and what happens when you can't be understood, and watching Clara and Fabrizio navigate their language barrier was a big part of it. And so is the moment when Fabrizio pours out his heart in beautiful Italian--or the moment when his family argues furiously in front of a bewildered, increasingly panicking Clara--while the audience knows exactly what's going on without understanding a single word.

If Only Sinestro Had Thought of a Yellow Inner Monologue

Any comic book fan who hasn't seen these I'm a Marvel...and I'm a DC  videos needs to drop what they're doing and watch them immediately.  They're not just brilliant parodies; they're hilarious takes on the characters--and the Marvel/DC division.  

And besides, who doesn't love a singing Deadpool?

Spider-Man: Turn Off the Cash

It’s rare that I get to talk about musical theatre and comic books AT THE SAME TIME, so I’m excited the Spider-Man musical gives me that chance. I wish it were under better circumstances, though, since the (rumored) $40 million Broadway production is apparently experiencing a “cash flow” problem, making it doubtful that it’ll open in February.

This doesn’t surprise me—or anyone else, really. If its budget is as big as the word on the street claims, Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark will be the most expensive Broadway musical ever. Add to that its sky-high weekly running costs, and it’d have to be a bigger phenomenon than Wicked to make that money back. I hope things work out for the show and that it still makes it to Broadway; I don’t want to see all the people that have been working on it for so long out of a job.

I’m also kind of excited for it, although I’m also kind of sad about it at the same time. I’ve loved Spider-Man since watching the cartoons as a little kid, and I feel even more strongly about the character now. There are a lot of things I find compelling about the story, but I ultimately connect with the identity issues Peter faces. Who is Peter Parker? The geeky goody-goody who can’t talk to the girl next door and doubles as Flash Thompson’s punching bag? Or the wisecracking, skyscraper-swinging defender of the weak whose humility won’t let people see his face? Bruce Wayne is undeniably the mask Batman puts on in daylight; Superman is at heart a farm boy from Smallsville. But with Spider-Man, it’s never been clear if donning that red and blue jumpsuit lets Peter put on a disguise—or take it off.

I generally enjoyed all three Spider-Man movies, despite being mortified at the second half of the third and being annoyed by a few things in the second. All three were a little too action-centric for me, but in a big summer blockbuster superhero movie, that’s what people expect, and I appreciated that the films don’t ignore the psychological aspects of the story. For the record, I like seeing things explode and I love a good fight, but other superhero stories have plenty of that. I loved last summer’s Iron Man and The Dark Knight partly because of how those films used violence. But Iron Man and Batman are different kinds of characters with different relationships to violence. Nobody wants to see Tony Stark or Bruce Wayne sit around narrating their feelings, partly because (in Bruce’s case) it’d be a boring emofest, but mostly because that’s not what those characters do. That’s not who they are

But that’s who Peter Parker is, and my favorite incarnations of Spider-Man reflect that. Spider-Man Loves Mary Jane is nowhere near as fluffy a work as its title implies. Told from the teenage Mary Jane’s perspective, the comic addresses all the story’s core themes in a high school setting. The characters uniformly talk and act like teenagers without sounding petty or stupid. It’s hard to write attractive and popular 16 year olds well, but Sean McKeever and his successor, Terry Moore, give Mary Jane, Liz Allen, Flash Thompson, and Harry Osbourne the respect they deserve. Equally impressive is the artwork. This series introduced me to two of my favorite artists: Sean McKeever’s initial collaborator on the project, Takeshi Miyazawa, and Craig Rousseau, who joined when Terry Moore did. There’s a brilliant sequence at the end of the second volume where Mary Jane breaks up with Harry, Peter almost breaks up with Gwen Stacy, and Spider-Man breaks up with the flirtatious superhero, Firestar. The panels rotate through the three couples in a way that’s breathtakingly cinematic, and the panels themselves are gorgeous in their simplicity. I’ve never seen anything convey Peter’s weariness more than this sequence, as he tries to do what’s right both as Peter and as Spider-Man, knowing full well that he can’t be with Mary Jane in either identity.

Similarly brilliant is The Spectacular Spider-Man animated series. It’s a kids show—it premiered on Kids CW and now airs on Disney XD, Disney’s channel for animated shows. The first season has just been released on DVD, and I strongly urge anyone who loves quality superhero shows—and quality children’s television—to pick it up, since higher DVD sales make it more likely there’ll be a third season. Like Spider-Man Loves Mary Jane, the show focuses on the teenaged Peter Parker, and it equally succeeds at depicting Peter and his classmates as actual high school students. The Spectacular Spider-Man has the additional challenge of being aimed at young children. I don’t know anything about the show’s actual demographic, but I’d imagine “young children” really means “4-10 year old boys.” (Although I hope a decent number of girls watch it, too.)

As I’ve mentioned, there are a lot of complex psychological issues inherent in Spider-Man, and it’d be so, so easy for a kids’ version of the story to be more about Spider-Man and less about Peter Parker. I only have vague memories of the Spider-Man cartoon I watched as a kid (I don’t even remember the title), but everything I do remember involves Spider-Man tossing off one-liners as he beats up bad guys. I don’t even remember what that show’s Peter looked like. I doubt any kid watching The Spectacular Spider-Man would have that trouble, however. The show certainly has enough action and simple enough storylines to hold an eight year old’s attention, but it never shies away from heavy topics, such as Harry’s addiction to a performance-enhancing drug, and Liz’s brother’s severe gambling problem. It’s also got some of the funniest and smartest writing I’ve seen on television. One of my favorite moments is in the second season, when Peter and his classmates are ice skating at Rockefeller Center. Peter burns his tongue on hot chocolate right before supervillains descend on the students…causing Spider-Man to make barely intelligible quips because of his burnt tongue. There are also delightful little details throughout each episode; one villain drinks from a mug that has “Evil Genius” printed on the side. It may be for kids, but The Spectacular Spider-Man has gotten me and my boyfriend completely hooked—and we’re both in our mid-twenties.

That’s my Spider-Man, and that’s the Spider-Man I wish so desperately we’d see in a Broadway musical. Spider-Man doesn’t need to be big budget special effects. Maybe at did as a movie, but not as theatre. For all my hopes that Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark is visually brilliant with an awesome rock score, I feel the story and its characters would fit so much better as a character piece with a tiny cast in a black box. It’d certainly be cheaper.

...And A Musical In 140 Characters, Too.

Just a quick follow-up to my Twitter opera post: the acclaimed Broadway musical Next to Normal has been adapted to Twitter. I'm excited that the creatives didn't just summarize the show, but used Twitter as a chance to expand its world.

An Aria In 140 Characters

Technology has always influenced art. Mathematical advances enabled Renaissance painters to experiment with perspective. In the early days of the record, nearly all popular songs were around three minutes long—just what one side of a record had room for. And the introduction of sound in the movies changed the nature of cinematic storytelling.

There’s been a lot of discussion about how cell phones and the internet have changed the way theatre is done—how casting gossip spreads through message boards like wildfire, and how people can blog about a show in previews during intermission. But how will this technology change the way shows are written?

In Japan, cell phones are upending the book industry, as keitai shosetsu—cell phone novels—have become wildly popular. Their authors are usually young women in their late teens and early twenties, rapidly tapping stories of love and its complications on their cell phones during long commutes. Told in short sentences and slang, cell phone novels are light on plot and character development, but that hasn’t discouraged millions of girls and young women from devouring each installment—or from snapping up hardcover versions of the novels that have been published.

Keitai shosetsu seem only natural to me. A novel is a text-based medium, after all, and it’s one where such experimentations in form aren’t uncommon. But I am curious about how such a thing would translate to theatre, where you can’t replicate exactly what you type into your phone; where words disappear as soon as they’re uttered, instead of being preserved on the page for the reader to go back to.

The Royal Opera House in London will deal with these issues at its performance of the first Twitter opera. In hopes of making opera more accessible to the public, the Royal Opera House has invited people to contribute to an opera libretto written entirely on its Twitter page. Two currently unannounced singers will perform excerpts from the completed work.

I think that’s a fascinating idea, and it’s a great way to use technology to get audiences directly involved—and to work against the belief that opera belongs fully in the past. I also like the concept of a 140 character limit on each entry. Especially for first-time writers, restrictions can be more helpful than confining; with only 140 characters to work with at a time, every word and piece of punctuation becomes a deliberate choice. That’s why I love writing lyrics. With song structure, rhyme scheme, and scansion a few of the elements governing a lyric, I have to really think about what I’m trying to say. I’m a much more disciplined writer because of that.

Regardless of how successful this Twitter opera is, I find it heartening that an institution like the Royal Opera House is willing to embrace technology in this way—even if it’s just a publicity stunt. I think there’s a lot for writers and artists to gain from the different writing structures and formats of social networking sites, text and instant messages, blogs, and message boards. And I think everyone can gain from trying to write a pivotal plot point within the limitations of a Twitter update.

Just When You'd Thought They'd Gone...

Playbill.com has just announced that the West End revival of La Cage aux Folles that originated at the Menier Chocolate Factory is moving to Broadway in spring of 2010.

I'm thrilled for the Chocolate Factory. I saw their production of tick, tick...BOOM! (with Neil Patrick Harris as Jonathan!) back in June 2005, when nobody had even heard of them. I don't remember how I'd heard about the production since the Chocolate Factory was in its initial season, and since I knew nothing about it, I didn't know what to expect. But since I loved both the show and Neil Patrick Harris (his version of "If You Can Find Me, I'm Here" off The Frogs/Evening Primrose recording had me sold), I figured it was worth the risk. Clearly, it was, since the Chocolate Factory has been having success after success with its musicals--the most notable being its Olivier and Tony Award winning revival of Sunday in the Park with George. In the past few seasons, the theatre has joined the Donmar in providing an intimate space for musicals that aren't exactly commerical hits--something that, in my experience there, London needs.

Consequently, I'm excited that yet another Menier musical is not only on the West End, but is moving to Broadway. But does it have to be a show whose last Broadway revival was five years ago?

I'm worried that the recent success of the 2008 Gypsy revival has set an unhealthy precedent. Since I'd missed the Encores! production the summer of 2007, I was desperate to see Patti LuPone and Laura Benanti's takes on the show, and was ecstatic upon hearing it was getting a Broadway run. Sure, there'd been the revival with Bernadette Peters in 2003, but that was a different production with a different director and a different star. And it was GYPSY. Come on. Who doesn't want that show constantly playing somewhere in New York? I hadn't gotten hooked on musicals until fall of 2003, so while I'd seen that Gypsy revival twice, I'd been too busy catching up on other shows to see it more than that, and I'm not sure how much I'd fully appreciated it, anyway. The Patti Gypsy was my chance to make up for that.

I wasn't too upset with Les Miserables coming back to Broadway a mere three years after the original production closed, either. I like the show well enough; it's got some thrilling moments, and I can understand why it appeals so strongly to so many people (though I'm not one of them). It's not anything I'd go out of my way to see, and even if it was, reviving a show three years after the original production closed is ridiculous any way you look at it. Especially when the show in question originally ran for sixteen years.

But it was easy to justify even this revival. For one thing, it was a limited run of a touring production--not an open-ended run of an entirely new one--and my understanding is that it was filling a house that would have been dark otherwise (correct me if I'm wrong) until the next scheduled tenant moved in. Granted, the revival did extend multiple times if I remember correctly, but it always had an end date in sight.

The other thing about the Les Miz revival was the cast. With Norm Lewis as Javert, Alex Gemignani as Valjean, Daphne Rubin-Vega as Fantine and Celia Keenan-Bolger's Eponine, it was a theatre queen's dream. Daphne and Celia were particularly fascinating. Daphne because her portrayal of Fantine was the rawest I'd ever heard or seen, with her "I Dreamed A Dream" so jagged you knew life had broken this woman beyond repair; Celia because her Eponine revealed in the romantic fantasty she had to actively remind herself was a lie. It's hard to complain with a cast like that.

This 2010 revival of La Cage aux Folles, however, doesn't have any of those factors, so it's difficult to see what the point is. I'm sure the West End production deserves to be on Broadway, but I don't see a reason for bringing it over so soon--if at all.

These sorts of things are tricky for me, because I can be far more forgiving when it's a show I love. Or, in the case of Les Miz, when there are cast members I love. When it's a show I don't like, don't care about, or don't know, that's when I can look at an issue without adding "...but...it's [insert show obsession here]." I try as a general rule to think about how I'd feel if weren't Gypsy, if it weren't Norm Lewis in Les Miz.

Now I'm forced into objectivity with La Cage, and I have to say I'd rather forgo Patti!Gypsy than have Broadway houses filled with boomerang shows--or worse, boomerang revivals. I feel very strongly about revivals, especially ones that re-interpret the material in some way; that's how you keep older shows from becoming museum pieces, and how you help a modern audience connect to a world that might otherwise seem dated and foreign. But you need distance from a piece to get something new out of it. That's why I can go for years without listening to my favorite recordings, and why I need to take breaks from the shows I write. If something becomes too familiar, it stops becoming a challenging, living reflection of its audience, and starts becoming comfort food.

That's not good for audiences, and it's not good for Broadway--or for musical theatre as a whole. Longer running shows mean fewer empty houses, and that means fewer new shows. When you can extend a show's life by bringing it back within five years--within a decade--you cut the number of new shows that can open in a given season down even more. That type of environment also discourages a culture of risk-taking; why bring in unknown work when you can bring in a show that's extremely fresh in the audience's memory? There's enough of that going on as it is.

I hope the La Cage revival is nothing like the 2004 revival. I hope it changes how people look at the piece, and I hope it brings even more acclaim (and money!) to the Menier Chocolate Factory. But I also hope boomerang shows don't become a trend.

A Five, Six, Seven, Eight!

Ballroom dancing show Burn the Floor has opened on Broadway for a limited engagement, sparking speculation on the public's newfound fascination with ballroom dance. Both this Reuters article by Michelle Nichols and this one by Newsday's Linda Winer note the somewhat unexpected popularity of ballroom dance reality shows like So You Think You Can Dance and Dancing with the Stars. Nichols reports that ballroom dancing classes have become significantly more crowded in the past few years, with the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre's public dance classes seeing a 40% jump this year alone.

I, however, have a lot of trouble watching dance. Of any kind. When I became hopelessly obsessed with the Cats video (I was thirteen, shut up), I would fast forward through the extended dance sequences. I was bored out of my mind when I saw performance of the Royal Ballet in London a few years ago. I respect dance immensely and think it can work powerfully in musical theatre (and on its own, for that matter), but I tend to zone out during dance heavy production numbers. And no, I haven't seen either So You Think You Can Dance or Dancing with the Stars.

When dance affects me--and sometimes it does!--it's because of story. I saw an Alvin Ailey performance in Boston a few years ago not expecting very much, but I was floored. Despite the lack of any words or a clear narrative in any of the pieces, I was incredibly engrossed in each one.

Movement, I realized, can express far more than stereotypical old-school Broadway production numbers led me to believe. I've only seen clips from the 2000 dance musical Contact, but from what I know of it, the piece strives to do just that. Same with Twyla Tharp's Movin' Out in 2002.

So I definitely think it's good that a dance show is playing on Broadway, if only for a little while. It's important that Broadway be a home for a range of things theatrical--not only because it exposes more people to live theatre, but also because every time something that's not quite a play or not exactly a musical opens, it makes us rethink the ways we cateogorize theatre. Musical theatre in particular.

I don't plan on seeing Burn the Floor. Dance isn't really my thing. But I'm excited that something so current and mainstream is on Broadway. And I hope that someone watching it gets inspired to use ballroom dance in a more narrative driven musical. A musical version of Strictly Ballroom, anyone?

All The World's A Stage: Literally

There's an article in yesterday's New York Times about theatrical performances in public places--there's been a lot of it this summer, apparently. I'd heard about Break Out in Song, but I hadn't realized this sort of theatrical events was so extensive.

I think presenting theatre in unconventional locations is really exciting. Aside from what it does to expand the boundaries of where and how you can stage theatre, it does so much for helping people look at theatre in a different way. Theatre, especially musical theatre, can be incredibly insular. Most people who are heavily into it--as performers, writers, crew members, or fans--tend to have grown up with it. Those that haven't often have very different and often inaccurate impressions of what theatre actually is. How many times have you heard someone unfamiliar with musical theatre describe it as "people randomly breaking out into song" or as being "unrealistic"? (As though cinematic conventions such as voiceovers, direct address to the audience, and background music are staples of everyday life...and as though all art forms strive to be as "realistic" as possible.) Admittedly, randomly breaking out in song is exactly what Break Out In Song does, but if nothing else, it may make someone who's anti-musicals realize just how fun breaking out into song can be. Which in turn could get them into a theatre, where they'd learn that, at least in a well-constructed musical, the songs aren't exactly random.

These performances are also important for theatre fans because of the questions they inherently raise. What makes something a piece of theatre and not performance art? What's the role of the audience, and how does that change depending on venue? What's different about watching two people argue from a chair in an air-conditioned Broadway house and watching that same argument take place outside your car? And then there's the issue of audience participation, and of course, that fourth wall.

I'm not sure how much I personally would enjoy these types of performances. I haven't even been to Shakespeare in the Park, and any audience particpation beyond Rocky Horror Picture Show level makes me nervous. But anything that blurs the line between theatre and reality fascinates me, and as far as I'm concerned, anything that exposes theatre to more people--especially people who wouldn't seek it out--is automatically a good thing.