the craptacular

When I moved to New York City, I had a list. It included things like gallery openings and walking in Central Park at night and getting promoted. I’ve lived here for seven years. I’ve done almost all of it. But last night, I crossed off a big one—one of the few lingering things that moved up and down the list over the years, depending on my priorities, my place in life, my income:

I saw a Broadway show on opening night.

The show was American Idiot and sitting in our rather high-altitude seats, I couldn’t help thinking about some other theatrical firsts in my life, and how seeing a show has changed so much since I was a kid. Last night, the audience howled and applauded for most of the show, a noise big enough to rival the noise onstage, which isn’t insignificant. It was thrilling—I love to see people having big noisy fun at a the theater when it’s appropriate—but it never used to be like this. When I started seeing shows in the early nineties, you went to the theater and you sat silently for two hours, and everyone around you was old enough to be your grandmother.

And then Rent happened. I was 15, and I went with my friends, not my parents, and I wore my red-and-blue patterned Doc Martens and one of my mom’s old t-shirts from the seventies, and I screamed my lungs out for two hours. It was one of the coolest experiences of my life—a complete shift in the idea of what a Broadway show should be, and who should go to see it. I’d loved lots of musicals before Rent, but they felt like they were written for someone else—for someone’s monied, aged perception of a Broadway audience. And then Jonathan Larson saved us, or at least gave us something else to think about. Les Miz made me cry because I so got what Eponine was saying, but Rent was mine—for and about my generation. And the show’s cues were pretty clear: It was more than OK to treat it like my generation treats its live entertainment—to dance and shout and stand on your chair if you want to.

That’s what happened last night, when the kids in the balcony clapped and sang along, and shouted back at the stage. It made me happy that this is part of Rent’s legacy, and that I got to grow up with it. These days, having a young, engaged, noisy audience is not just a norm, but a pretty healthy goal for any show. So bring on Green Day. Or anyone else who’d like to blow the roof off a Broadway theater eight times a week. That’s what my Broadway looks and sounds like these days, the language of right here and now, and what a lovely noise it is.

Seeing that up close would give you an aneurysm too.

Okay.  That is, admittedly, a bit of an exaggeration.  I did not come close to death in the audience in the St. James Theater last month.  Clearly.  I mean, I’m here, writing about it.  I lived to tell the tale.  But it really did feel like I might have, so, I think it’s fair to be dramatic.  (I always think it’s fair to be dramatic.)

Let’s backtrack.

The night of the first preview of American Idiot I was in a land far, far away from the Theater District called Pennsylvania.  This meant Lucky was stuck with the nearly impossible task of telling me all about what she’d seen at the St. James that night without ruining the show for me.  Which left her with…not a lot of material.  But, of the things Lucky was able to muster without spoiling me, the one I remember most clearly—because it made me laugh out loud—was “That show will give you a migraine.”

This was, of course, a joke about the unrelenting pace of American Idiot which drives inexorably forward for ninety minutes without an intermission, without a pause.  Only.  The following Wednesday, when I finally got to the St. James to see St. Jimmy and Jesus and Whatshername, I actually did get a migraine.  I’m not even kidding.  By the time Theo Stockman was climbing all over the scaffolding/tour bus and belting out “Holiday,” the aura that precedes the epic pain of my migraines stretched over most of the middle of my vision.  A glittering golden slash of light prevented me from seeing anything I tried to focus on and I remained at least partially blind for more than half the performance.  Two thirds is probably a safer guess.

Yes.  I stayed.  There are lots of reasons—ticket costs and sheer unbridled excitement among them—but mostly I was just unwilling to let a migraine ruin this moment for me.  I’d waited too long.  And to be honest, American Idiot turned out to be one of the only shows I could have survived with a burgeoning migraine.  I know that sounds crazy, after all, its unyielding nature was what inspired Lucky to joke about getting headaches in the first place.  But that’s why it works.  American Idiot starts hard and finishes hard and never lets up for a moment in between.  It sweeps you up and whisks you along so quickly, so thoroughly, that you don’t have time to think about anything else, to focus on your pain.  American Idiot is all encompassing.

Besides, my pain didn’t start until the final twenty or so minutes of the show and that was actually quite fitting.  It was like waking up beside the troubled characters on stage, the very same hangover thundering inside my brain.  I (very literally) felt Will, Tunny and Jesus’ pain as they came to grips with the fact that no one was waiting to give them an answer.  This is my generation, after all.  I came of age in a country lead by President George W. Bush—whom I was only a few months too young to vote against—and survived one of our nation’s most devastating tragedies here in New York within weeks of moving away from home for the very first time.  This was my story.  My rage.  My love.

American Idiot is a moving portrait of a generation lost, flailing.  A downright terrifying story that offers its characters—its audience—no answers and no solutions, only more questions, more confusion.  There is no happy ending.  No singing curtain call.  But then, that’s what makes it real.  And beautiful.  That is the point.  You have to make meaning yourself.  No one can give you the answers.  Certainly not your TV screen.  And especially not your President.

You can have a migraine and be half blind for more than half the show and still see that.  Still feel that.  Green Day’s music tells a haunting story and with Michael Mayer’s direction and Steven Hoggett’s absolutely arresting choreography the young, talented cast—lead by Johnny Gallagher Jr., giving the most physically demanding and affecting performance of his career—bring that story to life in a way that stays with you.  In a way that you can’t miss or ignore or forget.

And in the morning, when you wake up and the migraine—or the hangover—is gone, American Idiot is still there.  You carry it with you.  You start to look for your own answers.

Photo Credit: BroadwayWorld.com

Hey, remember when Spring Awakening perfectly captured the rumblings of your adolescent psyche?

Yeah, me neither.

But in the fervent fan discourse surrounding that show, there was always an unspoken, but distinct divide, and if you spend a few minutes today clicking through Tumblr—and I suggest that you do so because it’s awesome and because you’ll find lots of cute photos—you’ll see that it still exists: Either you were Team Melchior, or you were Team Moritz. More specifically, you dug Groff—the dreamboat—or you dug Gallagher—the edgy poet.

It’s not like we pulled this out of the air, or like this dichotomy hasn’t existed since the beginning of the pop culture universe, whether we’re talking about Luke Perry and Jason Priestly or those stupid vampires. The show itself sets these two up as distinct archetypes as though they’re members of a boyband: The Justin Timberlake and A.J. McLean of Broadway, if you will. At one point, the girls in the show even have a conversation about which one of them is their favorite, as though they were choosing which poster to hang above their beds. Either you were flush with excitement when Thea proclaimed Melchior “such a radical” or when Marta swooned over “soulful sleepyhead” Moritz.

The actors who played them, of course, get cast into these types all the time. How many wild-eyed idealists can Groff play in a lifetime? And how many times can Johnny Gallagher glower out at an audience, furrow his brow, and tell you about his painfully misunderstood feelings? Given that American Idiot opens tonight, and that Groff is the only thing worth mentioning about “Glee” right now, it looks like we’re about to find out.

But something kind of cool has happened with these two lately. They broke the teeny bopper mold. Or maybe their fans did. Yes, Groff is still The Cute One and Gallagher is still The Edgy One, but they’ve both managed to land in roles that spin these archetypes in unexpected ways.

At a preview performance of American Idiot, as the drunk girls seated next to me would surely have testified if they could stop slurring long enough, the estrogen levels in the room were never so high as they were when Gallagher was on the stage. Which is to say, for the entire show. Even the genuinely hunky Stark Sands, who spends a calculable percentage of the show in his underwear, could not compete. There was moaning, erratic self-fanning, the desperate clutching of illegally-and-cluelessly-powered-up cell phones. They just wanted one photo, they pleaded to the angry ushers. Enter Johnny Galls, unlikely heartthrob of the 2010 Broadway season.

Part of it is context. A gritty show demands a gritty leading man, and Gallagher is perfect for American Idiot. Small-statured and shifty and resolutely unbeautiful, save the glimmer in his eyes, he is the ultimate hero and crush for the misunderstood—you know, like the girl, for example, who needs to get smashed before a Broadway musical. But instead of being relegated to second-lead status—The Kid Who Dies, or The Foil for the Actual Hero—Gallagher is the whole show this time. He sings all the big songs, and he gets the girl (and she’s really hot). Someone like Groff would never do in American Idiot. In fact, when Groff’s character on “Glee” plays screaming rockstar, it’s spun as a joke. In fact, it’s the joke. Jesse St. James’s posturing, his theater-dork idea of what it means to be edgy, is the very thing that makes him so ludicrous. It’s so far outside the lines of a typical leading man role, yet so perfect for Groff, who looks more or less like he tumbled headlong out of a Botticelli, but can also play his very leading-mannish earnestness as camp.

A quick glance at Twitter (or Tumblr, or LiveJournal) proves that the girls (and the boys) are swooning anyway. So maybe we’re all evolving—and are suddenly a little more willing to hang all kinds of posters on our walls.

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Photo Credit: Hair, Playbill.com

Well, well. All the cool kids seem to be hanging out across the pond these days. The Daily Mail is reporting that Jonathan Groff will star in a revival of Ira Levin’s comedy Deathtrap beginning August 21 in the West End.

Five thoughts, real fast:

1. How much do we love the idea of Jon playing comedy? First Jesse St. James informs us that The University of California at Los Angeles is in Los Angeles, and now this.
2. Naturally, because God hates theater, this coincides with a spike in airfare from New York to London. We know, because we’ve had our Kayak e-mail alerts set to JFK>LHR since the Hair tribe went over.
3. You know why he’s going, and who he’s going for. Shut up. You thought it. And your heart burst with simultaneous joy and dread, didn’t it. Oh, girl. We know. We’re right there with you. We have purchased our popcorn, and we are ready to watch this crazyhood unfold.
4. Another thing that’s got our curiosity up: We appreciate Jonathan’s love of the wicked stage, but seriously? A random revival of a 1978 comic thriller that I fully had to look up on Wikipedia before I could even write this post? In London? Ten-and-a-half seconds after becoming an International Television Star? Four-and-a-half seconds after landing a role in a Robert Redford movie? What? He’s on drugs or he’s in love. Or he needs to get away from Lea Michele that badly. These are our only conclusions.
5. Oh, we’re going. We are so going.

JONATHAN GROFF!
Last night Glee formally introduced the world to Jonathan Groff.  And the world said “Helloooo baby, where have you been all my life?”  (Just like that creepy old guy in the bar said to you last Saturday night.)  When those beautiful, mermaid-y green eyes appeared over Rachel’s sheet music, twitter—and by extension the universe—exploded.  And not just The Craptacular’s twitter.  Or your twitter.  No, everyone’s twitter.  Jonathan Groff was a nationwide Trending Topic, be still my theater loving heart.  That fool was listed higher than Justin Beiber (whose fans tweet about him approximately every .004 seconds).

The craziest part of all is, of course, that this was Jonathan Groff in Jesse St. James’ poor approximation of a rebellious teenager’s clothes, wearing more makeup and expensive hair product than he’s ever seen, auto-tuned to within an inch of his life, until he hardly even sounds like his charming self.  In other words, this was the Groff minus 50% of the things we all love about him, and still, he was the star of this episode.  Our wonderful little secret is definitely not a secret anymore.

Rachel Berry and her Fragile Psyche
The script is pretty merciless when it comes to Rachel Berry, but at the end of the day, the writers allow her to be wise and human and often—right.  Her kissoff speech to Finn after he breaks up with her was so satisfying, not just because Finn was being a massive jerk, but it felt like Rachel’s redemption, like she was telling off all of us for continually underestimating her.  Because at the end of the day, what’s wrong with being Rachel Berry?  She knows what she wants.  She’s driven to get it, and she’s never subversive or manipulative.  Why wouldn’t Finn want to date her?  She’s certainly proven herself to have more backbone—and more self-knowledge—than he does.

The other brilliant moment was when Sue Sylvester staged a kind of emotional warfare against Rachel to force her into Jesse St. James’s arms, and take her out of New Directions.  Sue puts her in a room with a bunch of girls who Rachel is terrified of becoming—girls who are loveless and poorly dressed and destined to be alone.  Of course, this isn’t just Rachel’s fear—it’s every woman’s fear.  Or more, it’s a parody of every woman’s fear—what we’re all supposed to lose sleep over.  The scene is so over-the-top and spoofy—of Rachel’s own hilarious fears, of societal pressure on women, and of Sue Sylvester’s icy black center.

Will Schuester Keeps His Shirt On (Even When He’s Cheating)
Ryan Murphy and the creators of Glee spent 13 episodes—13 hours of your precious, overbooked life—building the Will/Emma relationship.  In December, at the end of the first ‘half’ of the season, we were finally treated to the kiss we’d been waiting for since September, and it was amazing.  So what happened with Will and Emma last night?  Oh, that’s right.  Nothing.  Nothing good, at least.  Because this half of the season, Will is apparently playing Casanova, not Romeo.  He kissed Emma once, she freaked him out with a little honesty, and what did he do?  He hooked up with another woman.  Behind her back.

And you know what?  Normally, I’d buy that.  Honesty does, all too frequently, send us running.  Especially when it comes to sex.  But come on!  That tawdry hookup was terrible.  Idina Menzel is a heck of an actress, but her chemistry with Matthew Morrison was non-existent.  The only reason I knew those two were going to hook up was because the characters TOLD ME.  Which is the worst.  Show me!  Rachel and Jesse did it.  The sparks between them were flying off the screen.  Why am I being forced to buy that there’s a similar connection between Will and Shelby when I can’t see it?  Why are you jerking us around for this?

I know, I know.  TV isn’t that simple.  You can’t just resolve story lines that quickly or easily, because it ends up making for boring television in the long run.  But I mean, if you’re going to toy with my emotional investment in these characters, it better be good.  And shit, if it’s not, I better get to see Matthew Morrison shirtless, at the very least.

Glee, You Just Put Blanket Through College
We get a Beatles song on “Glee” and this is how it goes down?  Lea’s version of “Gives You Hell” was spunky and fun.  Vocal Adrenaline literally had fire.  But one of Paul McCartney’s most iconic pop gems gets stiff choreography, a dark stage, no memorable solos, and LBDs with big white bows on the front?  What?  What show are we even watching?  For what the show paid to use it, they probably could have had Bob Mackie do costumes for the whole season, or hired Pulitzer Prize winner (!) Tom Kitt as a rehearsal accompanist.  And somewhere, on some highly-spangled cloud, Michael Jackson just laughed, and changed the channel.

Dolphins Are Just Gay Sharks

Shirtless Matt is twice as nice.

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Photo Credit: South Pacific; Celebuzz.com

This morning’s edition of The Musical in My Mind is in honor of tonight’s Spring Premiere of Glee, featuring Broadway stars Jonathan Groff and Idina Menzel.  During our last editorial meeting, Lucky and I started Glee-casting famous musicals, which is sort of like Fantasy-casting, only, reallllly focused.  Now, it’s our new favorite past time.  Check out some of our suggestions below.

#2: Glee-sus Christ Superstar

Judas – Matthew Morrison

Jesus Christ – Jonathan Groff

Mary Magdalene – Idina Menzel

Caiaphas – Jessalyn Gilsig

Pontius Pilate – Lea Michele

King Herod – Jane Lynch

Annas – Jayma Mays

Peter – Corey Monteith

Simon Zealotes – Mark Spalling

***

#3: Gleeny Todd

Sweeney Todd – Matthew Morrison

Mrs. Lovett – Jessalyn Gislig

Judge Turpin – Jane Lynch

Beadle Bamford – Iqbal Theba

Davey Collins/Signor Adolfo Pirelli – Mark Spalling

Lucy Barker/Beggar Woman – Jayma Mays

Johanna Barker – Lea Michele

Anthony Hope – Jonathan Groff

Tobias “Toby” Ragg – Corey Monteith

***

#4 West Side Storglee

Tony – Jonathan Groff

Riff – Mark Salling

Bernardo – Kevin McHale

Maria – Lea Michele

Baby John – Chris Colfer

Chino – Corey Monteith

Anita – Amber Riley

Action – Harry Shum Jr

Arab – Dijon Talton

Anybodys – Diana Agron

Krupke – Iqbal Theba

Jets – Cheerios

Sharks – Jocks

***

So what musical would you guys Glee-cast?  And who’d get the plum roles?  Fire away!

Lucky and I were so happy to hear that Next to Normal had won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize for Drama that we actually cried.  Both of us.   In honor of this auspicious event, we’d like to celebrate with a list.

A Very Short List of Things About Next to Normal That Didn’t Make Us Cry:

• The mostly unnecessary Aaron Tveit/Kyle Dean Massey Underwear Scene.

In all seriousness, though, congratulations to Tom Kitt, Brian Yorkey and the entire Next to Normal team.  Together you created the most beautiful, moving, excellently deserving show on Broadway.  We’re so glad to see your work recognized this way.