While the spring shows get ready to open, and we get psyched about seeing some faves on stage again, it seemed high time for me to purge some of my theater demons. To confess, as it were, to you, our readers. So, here we go.
I’ve never seen Wicked. I know, I know. But you love theater! And cute boys like Aaron Tveit and Kyle Dean Massey! And it’s been open for as long as you’ve been alive!
I just… haven’t seen it. What’s more? I don’t really have any interest in, or intention of doing so. Ever. (Okay, I can envision one solitary circumstance which involves a much loved, muuuuch younger cousin who adores musical theater.)
This in itself probably isn’t all that interesting. Lots of people haven’t seen Wicked. Lots of people don’t care to see Wicked. No, the amusing thing about this is that it drives my father absolutely crazy. I shit you not.
Most people argue with their father about important things: relationship status, money, whether or not it is acceptable to leave the house in pants that look like that. Me? I argue with mine about Wicked.
My father’s ability to embrace things most grown men would never dare confess to loving—Sweet Home Alabama, crying at movies—is one of my favorite things about him. But man, does he love Wicked (he’s even seen it on tour) and it seems to trouble him deeply that I outright refuse to see it myself. Lately, when I’m home, the subject comes up just about as often as the number of items in my old bedroom he’d like me to dispose of. The arguments haven’t involved shouting yet, but I mean…with the two of us, you never know.
I suspect our disagreement stems from a belief that I’m being a judgmental cultural snob by refusing to see a show that got bad reviews and has flying monkeys. But I don’t look down on my dad for loving Wicked. Honestly. It’s just not my bag, baby. Not my kind of show.
But there is the outside possibility that this disagreement is directly related to the fact that everyone (everyone) in my extended family—well, maybe excepting my mother and some genetically unrelated aunts—has to be right all the time. And we constantly have to try and prove to each other just exactly how right we are. So my dad needs to be right about how great Wicked is and how much I’d love it. And I have to be right about…well, the exact opposite.
It remains to be seen if this argument will ever die, or at least cease to surface so frequently. I’m probably stoking the fire just writing this. But you never know. In a moment of weakness I might go see Wicked some day, too. Though, let’s be real, I’d never give anyone the satisfaction of admitting if I enjoyed it.