Should Race Be a Selling Point?

Norm Lewis made history as the first black Broadway Phantom when he joined the Broadway company of The Phantom of the Opera in May.  And while that is certainly noteworthy, I can't help but feel that maybe we are making *too* big of a deal about it.

Recently, some singer/talk show host I had never heard of was cast as the latest headliner in the terrible revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella.  Her name is Keke Palmer, and she will be Broadway's first black Cinderella.  This news story bothered me greatly.

Now, let's be clear:  I am most certainly NOT upset that an African-American woman will be headlining a Broadway musical about a fairy tale princess.  As a person of color who once dreamed of being an actor, I am all too aware of the difficulties facing ethnic actors today.  While we are slowly seeing more diversity in entertainment, the sad fact remains that a lot of casting directors still won't consider an ethnic actor for a part that doesn't explicitly call for that ethnicity.  Furthermore, the parts that do require an actor of color often make skin tone the role's defining characteristic, as if that is the only thing which could possibly necessitate casting a non-white performer.  And since most subsequent productions have a tendency to mimic the casting of the original, if the original actor wasn't black (or Latino, or Asian-American, etc.), then actors of those ethnicities often aren't seriously considered for the role even if race has zero bearing on the story.  So any instance of a traditionally white role going to an ethnic performer is something I am all for.

No, what bothers me about Ms. Palmer's casting is that the producers and press made such a big deal about her being the "first black Cinderella" on Broadway.  Every story went out of the way to mention Palmer's ethnicity, which makes me believe this is something that was explicitly pointed out in the press release as a way of drumming up extra attention.  Because honestly, the 4th replacement in a revival of a musical with middling box office probably wouldn't even merit mention if not for this one tidbit.  I will choose to believe that the producers of Cinderella didn't cast Palmer solely because of her race, but they sure don't mind using her skin color to get some extra publicity and perhaps stroke their egos in a self-congratulatory, "look-how-progressive-we-are" way.

My problem with this is that it makes skin color the defining characteristic of this actress.  The selling point of Palmer's casting is not her talent or her previous accomplishments; it is her skin color, something she has absolutely no control over.  This is even more baffling considering Cinderella, which won an Actor's Equity award for the diversity of its ensemble, has several other ethnic actors in principal roles without feeling the need to point out their heritage.  No one mentioned that Ann Harada is the first Asian-American Stepsister.  You know why?  Because it is Harada's talent that is her most important asset, not her ancestry, which is only one component of the many qualities and characteristics that make her unique.

A similar thing happened recently when Norm Lewis took over the title role in The Phantom of the Opera, Broadway's longest running musical.  Every news outlet, even those that normally don't cover Broadway, was suddenly talking about Phantom again because Lewis is the first black actor to play the role on Broadway in the show's 26 year run.  And while that is certainly an achievement, and a cool bit of theatrical trivia, why did that have to be the defining piece of news about his casting?  Again, my problem with spinning the story this way is that it places the emphasis on Lewis' skin color, something he has zero control over, and not his talent, something he has honed and sharpened over nearly 3 decades of performing.

Defining anyone primarily by their skin color is reductive (and borderline insulting).  By calling extra attention to race, we continue to train future generations to notice it and use it as a way to define people.  Even if the focus on Palmer and Lewis's heritage is well-intentioned, as a mixed-race American it makes me vaguely uneasy.  It deemphasizes individuality, and encourages people to make assumptions based on someone's outer appearance.

To me, the ideal treatment of race is how the subject was handled in Rent.  That show featured an incredibly diverse cast without making their diversity the central focus.  All of the various characters in Rent are treated as people first, with subtle nods to their ethnic backgrounds that provided extra spice without becoming their defining quality.  Very little is explicitly mentioned about any characters' heritage, meaning the show could theoretically be cast with any combination of actors.  It is generally cast to mirror the ethnic breakdown of the original cast, which goes back to the lack of imagination on casting directors' part, but that is an issue for another blog.  The pertinent point here is that it was diverse without making race its defining characteristic, one of the many ways in which the show was so groundbreaking.

Or to use a currently running example, look at Disney's The Lion King.  It features a largely black cast, which makes sense given the African setting and director Julie Taymor's wholehearted embrace of tribal design aesthetics.  Yet the show doesn't once call attention to the character's blackness (probably because they're all actually lions, but that is beside the point).  As Taymor has said in various interviews, The Lion King is a show that is not about race and yet all about race.  As she astutely points out, to white audiences it is the same story they know and love from the movie, and the ethnicities of the actors are a non-issue.  But to black audiences, it is very much the story of a black king trying to win back his kingdom, and sends a powerful message that people of color can be noble kings and queens too.  The brilliance of the show is that it allows for this reading without doing anything to emphasize it, which makes it even more progressive than the shows that call attention to their inclusiveness.

There is no denying that Broadway could use more diversity.  The country continues to become more ethnically varied, but the principal characters in most Broadway shows remain steadfastly white.  I am all for actors like Palmer and Lewis breaking barriers, but I think when we call too much attention to it we only exacerbate the problem.  I hope directors continue to consider and cast actors of all ethnicities in all roles (provided the show isn't explicitly about race and racism), but cease to call attention to the fact that they are doing so.  Calling attention to it ultimately reinforces the notion that race is something to obsess over and define people by, and that kind of thinking helps no one.  Trying to get brownie points for your affirmative action casting decisions is just tacky, and devalues the talent of the people you do hire.

Why Shorter Runs are Good for Broadway

 

When it first opened on Broadway, Oklahoma!'s 5 year run made it an unprecedented smash.  This past January, Phantom of the Opera celebrated its 25th year on the Great White Way.

Anyone who’s paying attention has probably noticed that even Broadway’s big hits aren’t running as long as they used to.  In a trend kickstarted by the singular sensation A Chorus Line, it seemed like almost every hit musical from the eighties and nineties was guaranteed a nice, long run that routinely stretched past the ten year mark.  Shows like Cats, Les Miserables, and The Phantom of the Opera (whose recorded shattering run has lasted over 25 years) made a compelling argument for hit shows that could run essentially forever. 

But around the dawn of the new millennium, things began to change.  Many of the old stalwarts like Les Miz and Cats played their final performances, and even Tony-winning megahits like The Producers and Hairspray began posting closing notices sooner than expected (although still long after they had turned a profit).  Some people bemoaned this fact; after all, I’m sure more than few producers have sent their kids through college using the money they made from long-running hits like The Lion King and Chicago, and the steady work such shows provide performers and technicians can be a godsend in an industry where stability is a rare commodity.  But I would argue the trend towards shorter runs is actually beneficial for the industry, and not just because there are only so many times I can hear “Dancing Queen” without wanting to punch someone.

To me, it seems the biggest benefit of the end of long runs is the theatre space it frees up.  There are only a finite number of Broadway theatres, and every season Wicked or Jersey Boys run they prevent another, potentially great production from receiving its Broadway debut.  This spring has already seen both The Velocity of Autumn and The Miss Firecracker Contest postpone their announced Broadway engagements due to lack of theatre space.  There is an extremely well-reviewed production of The Glass Menagerie currently playing at A.R.T. in Boston that producers would love to transfer (and I would love to see), but there’s no suitable theatre available.  Simply put, we have reached a point where there are more potential Broadway shows than there are Broadway theatres, and the longer the current shows run the longer we must wait to see what’s next.

An increased number of shows also means an increased number of playwrights, composers, and directors who get the invaluable experience of creating a show on Broadway.  This is particularly true for musical theatre artists, as finding an Off-Broadway venue with the space and resources to mount a new musical is at best challenging and at worst near impossible.  Yes, there are plenty of large regional theatres that are both willing and able to produce new musicals, and while an out-of-town experience is certainly useful, even vital, to the development of a show and its writers, it cannot duplicate the scrutiny and exposure a Broadway mounting brings with it.

The decrease in long-running shows will also help stem the tide of artistic stagnation that has been threatening to overtake Broadway for years.  New shows automatically increase the amount of fresh and exciting ideas circulating within in the industry, while preventing once innovative notions from wearing out their welcome.  A recent visit to the long-running Chicago revival confirmed what I had long feared:  what was once a fresh, exciting production has been overtaken by lackadaisical actors going through the motions, making the entire affair feel rather bland in the process.  This is not to say the show is bad; it still has its moments (the choreography, for example), and many of the tourists who make up the show’s demographic are blissfully unaware that they are experiencing a third rate version of this once first rate entertainment.  But Broadway is supposed to be the top tier of the American theatre industry, and unfortunately the longer a show runs the more likely it is to lose the luster that once made it seem revelatory.

More regular change also keeps Broadway’s performers on their toes, creating an environment where they can grow artistically thanks to a steady stream of new experiences.  While there is certainly something to be said for a steady paycheck, too many talented performers become seduced by that notion and spend three or four years doing the same show, eventually reaching the point where they could perform the show in their sleep.  The skills that are not actively required by that particular role become dull or lost, which will make landing the next job that much harder and keep the actor from achieving their full potential.

Finally, shorter runs lead to smarter budgeting by producers.  While it has never been a sound decision to budget a show so that it must run for years to turn a profit, the eighties and nineties spawned enough examples of long-running shows that producers began assuming every show would be equally successful.  Now that even the hit shows are closing sooner, producers will (hopefully) start creating shows with more sensible, sustainable budgets so that a greater number of them recoup their investment, thereby generating more income that can be used to finance the next wave of productions.

To be clear, I am not saying that long runs are inherently bad.  Good shows deserve financial success, and the employment opportunities afforded by long-running shows are certainly appreciated in these tough economic times.  For instance, The Book of Mormon is an incredible artistic achievement that has earned every bit of its runaway success, meriting the nice long run it will surely enjoy.  Shows like Wicked and Rent have introduced an entire generation to the joys of live theatre, and many of the people entering the industry today were inspired to do so by their experience with those shows.  But I do think that wanting everything to run for decades is neither realistic nor healthy for the industry as a whole, and that shows which run for a more than five years should be the exception and not the rule.

Thankfully, I think Broadway is heading back in this direction.  Now that many of the old juggernauts have closed, the industry seems to be recalibrating its definition of success to a more realistic standard.  A two or three year run is a very respectable achievement for any show, and as those become more standard it should prompt producers to begin budgeting their upcoming productions accordingly.  This way, we should be treated to a steady stream of new shows that will keep Broadway artistically vibrant while ensuring our next generation of writers are fully nurtured and supported.  And that will benefit us all in the long run.

Podcast Episode 3: Recent Movie Musicals

As any musical theatre fan already knows, the big budget film adaptation of Les Miserables is coming to theatres in just one short month.  In preparation for the big event, I assembled a panel of experts (well, opinionated theatre people) to discuss the modern rejuvenation of the movie musical.  I'm joined by returning podcaster Jessica and first-timers Spencer, Jackie, and Brian for a conversation about what makes for a good film adapatation of a hit stage show, as well as a frank discussion of the successes and failures of the various musical films released since 2003 Best Picture-winner Chicago.

Also, I am looking to really increase the podcast presence on this blog in the coming months, so any feedback about it is greatly appreciated.  Let me know if you like the long format or would prefer shorter installments, and any suggestions for podcast topics are always welcome.

Enjoy, and have a Happy Thanksgiving!

What's So Speacial About the Original Cast?

There have been five Broadway productions of Gypsy, and for many the Ethel Merman original remains the best

One interesting phenomenon among musical theatre aficionados – really all theatre fans, but it’s more pronounced in musical theatre circles – is the near-universal belief that a show’s original cast is always the best one.  No matter how many times a show has been successfully revived or remounted, these fans insist the original group of actors represent the best possible incarnation of a property.  If the work is particularly beloved, suggesting different actors for the lead roles becomes tantamount to sacrilege, and eventually you get people who think the then 43-year-old Sarah Brightman is an appropriate choice to play ingénue Christine Daae in the 2004 Phantom of the Opera film.

The above example is extreme, but the thinking behind it is so widespread that people have paid good money to see a 37-year-old Adam Pascal play Roger in Rent or a septuagenarian Carol Channing do Hello, Dolly!  Those real-life examples can be explained away as people who missed legendary performances willingly suspending their disbelief in order to see great actors recreate their most famous roles, but such reasoning doesn’t justify the idea that no matter how many times Gypsy or West Side Story get done, the original cast will always be the best.

So what’s driving this belief?  Is there any substance to the assertion that the original cast is always the superior one?  In large part, I think the primary reason comes down to mere familiarity.  With musicals, many times the only thing resembling a permanent record of the show is the Original Cast Recording.  This is how the vast majority of fans are first exposed to a show, and it is just about the only way anyone can relive the experience of actually seeing a live production.  The particular set of mannerisms, vocal tics, and acting choices captured by the recording becomes subconsciously ingrained in the listener’s head, and through repeated exposure becomes the accepted or “correct” way the material should be done.  If the person has never actually seen the show in question, then the cast album becomes representative of the ideal version of the property that’s been created in the listener’s head.  Any deviation from this imagined ideal can prove off-putting, even with supposedly open-minded people.

But if the reasoning behind this preference for the original cast seems somewhat arbitrary, that doesn’t mean the resulting wisdom is entirely wrong.  The truth of the matter is that the originating actor often ends up being the best, or at least one of the best, people to tackle a particular role.  If the performer is lucky enough to have the part written expressly for them, the way Gypsy was written for Ethel Merman or The Producers was tailored specifically to Nathan Lane, then of course he or she is going to impress in the role.  Even if the writers don’t have a particular person in mind when creating a character, they will inevitably end up fashioning the part around the person chosen to play it.  If a scene or song isn’t working, any rewrites will almost certainly take the performer’s strengths into account.  In a particularly collaborative environment, the actor may have direct input into the character’s moods and actions, subtly but forever skewing the script towards that performer’s interpretation of the role.

Then there are the times when a performer proves so compelling in a role that it takes on a life of its own, becoming greatly expanded in order to fully utilize that actor’s talents.  Anyone who has read the novel Wicked will tell you Glinda is a much more prominent presence in the musical, because the writers wanted to put for focus on Kristin Chenoweth’s bravura performance.  Stephen Flaherty and Lynn Ahrens wrote the song “Sarah Brown Eyes” in Ragtime specifically to give Tony-winner Audra McDonald more to do, since she was simply too good to leave out of the second act.  Rory O’Malley’s Elder McKinley didn’t even exist is early drafts of The Book of Mormon, but Matt Stone and Trey Parker were so entertained by his antics in the ensemble they crafted a role to better highlight him.  When a role is so specifically tailored to the original performer, their take on it will naturally be one of the strongest.

Original casts (and premiere casts of revivals) also have the benefit of extended rehearsal time to explore their roles.  A typical Broadway musical has about a month of rehearsals and another month of previews, giving the performers plenty of time to discover the nuances of their characterizations and iron out any kinks.  Add to that the months or even years spent workshopping a modern musical, and you have an artist who is intimately familiar with their particular character.  By the time workshops, out-of-town tryouts, and previews are taken into account, Idina Menzel spent three to four years refining her Elphaba, whereas her many replacements got at best a couple weeks of rehearsal before their first public performance.

The massive investment of time, combined with the knowledge that they are the first person to portray a particular role, results in actors feeling a sense of ownership that is difficult to replicate.  The original cast of a show has a heightened investment in making the show succeed, and going through the journey of discovering their characters with the writers and director gives their performances a more fully-realized and believable quality.  In contrast, many subsequent actors are encouraged to replicate the original’s performance, which can create a feeling of inauthenticity in their work.  Even if the production is new, such as a revival with entirely original staging, the shadow of their predecessor can loom large over any actor.  Every woman who’s played Joanne in Company has had to choose between trying to mimic Elaine Stritch (thereby inviting director comparison) or veering from Stritch’s blueprint and likely being criticized for it.

As we have seen, there are a lot of factors that contribute to making the original cast of a particular show the preferred one.  Because of this, I will always try to see a show while the original company is intact, but I have also seen enough replacements and understudies to know that they can be every bit as strong as the original performers.  I’ve also seen some incredible revivals that surely must compare favorably with the originals, such as the Patti LuPone-led Gypsy or the most recent New York staging of Follies.  Ultimately, the right actor in the right role will make for amazing theatre, whether that actor is the first person to ever play that character of the hundredth.  That is what makes live theatre so exciting, and being able to see multiple interpretations of the same show is what keeps me coming back, time and again. 

He's (Still) There, The Phantom of the Opera

If Christine's father were still around, he would surely advise against gondola rides with masked strangers.

Well, I finally saw it.  A mere 24 years after its Broadway premiere and approximately 10 years after I became seriously interested in musical theatre, I finally walked myself over to the Majestic Theatre and saw the theatrical phenomenon that is The Phantom of the Opera.

How have I never seen Phantom, you ask?  Several reasons.  First and foremost, I just don’t like Andrew Lloyd Webber.  In general, I find his shows to be overwrought, underwritten affairs where big ballads trump petty concerns like storytelling and character development.  In fact, at several points in his career I think he was actively mocking the theatergoing public, seeing just how many people he could get to buy tickets to plotless concerts about dancing cats or absurdist spectacles involving roller-skating trains.  Having heard the Phantom soundtrack, I found the show to rely too heavily on reprises disguised as new songs (it sounds as if a grand total of five melodic themes were continuously recycled, with new lyrics, during the show’s two-and-a-half hour runtime).  In addition, while listening to the show I felt no connection or emotional attachment to the two-dimensional characters, who could all die without the slightest bit of anguish from me.  And finally, I had the misfortune of sitting through the atrocious film version, which only the show’s most ardent fans could find halfway tolerable.  That experience effectively moved Phantom to the very bottom of my viewing list.

But now I’ve finally seen Broadway’s longest running smash, and I have to admit that it wasn’t as bad as I feared.  I still find it deeply flawed, but I wasn’t offended by its ineptitude the way I am by certain other megamusicals featuring masked men and an abundance of special effects.  In the plus column, most of the current collection of principals do a good job making some sort of sense out of their underwritten and often irrational characters, and help keep the show feeling fresh well into its third decade on Broadway.  The performances border on melodramatic at times, but so does the show, and they are in a massive theatre that doesn’t really allow naturalistic acting.  And regardless of my personal opinion of the quality of the score, it is certainly well-handled by the cast and orchestra, although the electronic keyboard is frighteningly pronounced at times.

The production’s strongest assets are Hal Prince’s staging and Maria Bjornson’s production design.  The show is a spectacle in every sense of the word, but rarely do the special effects or massive set pieces impede its progress.  Even after all these years, one can’t help but marvel at the ingenuity and efficiency of some of the set changes, and the excellent way Prince has deployed his actors on Bjornson’s ever-changing scenery.  The initial descent into the Phantom’s underground lair during the title song or the Act II opener “Masquerade” are particularly thrilling, and while the famed chandelier could probably be improved upon with modern technology this one still gets the job done.  Prince (and the various stage managers throughout the years) has done an excellent job of maintaining the show’s pace, which rarely flagged throughout the show’s slightly bloated runtime.

In fact, I would argue that without Prince and Bjornson, Phantom wouldn’t have become Phantom.  Lloyd Webber’s score and book (which he co-authored with Richard Stilgoe) have their moments, but without the sheer theatricality Prince and Bjornson added to the proceedings I doubt the show would have run past the early 90s.  But thanks to Prince and company, it recently celebrated a record-shattering 10,000 performance on the Great White Way with no end in sight, all due to an electric staging that covers many of the show’s flaws. 

If I had to guess, I would say that is the secret to Phantom’s record-breaking success; the show tricks you into thinking its more complex than it actually is.  The story has just enough depth that audiences can pretend they are seeing something deep and meaningful – a self-delusion not possible with pure fluff like Annie – but also contains the large cast and impressive sets people associate with a Broadway musical.  While the characters aren’t that complex or believably written – Christine in particular oscillates between being a frightened child and strong-willed upstart – and there are multiple plot holes that are probably less apparent in Gaston Leroux’s source material, the spectacle lets the audience feel like they are seeing an event rather than just a play.  And for all its dark undertones, the show never challenges us with any truly unsettling details or hard to digest moral gray areas, making it a family friendly entertainment that adults don’t want to claw their eyes out during.  It is this exact same formula that has made Wicked into the Phantom of the new millennium, and there’s no reason to expect it to stop working anytime soon.

At this point, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Phantom runs forever.  It has firmly entrenched itself as a Broadway institution, and is clearly the show to see for tourists, especially international ones.  It is admittedly a good first Broadway show, and at this point has been running so long that people who first saw it as children are now returning with their kids in tow.  So while I may not love it, I’ve at least seen what all the fuss is about, and have made my peace with the fact that it will never close.  I honestly can’t imagine walking down 44^th St. and not seeing its distinctive marquee.

And perhaps most importantly, it isn’t Cats.