I have a dirty little secret. Well, it really isn’t that much of a secret and I suppose it isn’t technically what you’d call dirty, but here it is . . . I hate musicals. Yeah that’s right, I hate musical theater – Oklahoma, Guys and Dolls, A Chorus Line, Phantom of the Opera, all of them. You might think this isn’t that big of a deal. I know I’m probably not the only person in the world who can make a mile-long list of things I’d rather do in New York City than go to a Broadway show. The problem is that I’m a performing arts presenter. Hating musicals in my world is sort of like being a surgeon who can’t stand the sight of blood or a preschool teacher who hates kids.
I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly why I don’t like musical theater. I might simply be missing a gene. It seems like I should like it; it’s a combination of things I’m very fond of. I like music of all kinds, I enjoy theater and I love dance. I’m not sure what it is about combining the three that makes me want to slit my wrists. Shouldn’t combining good things result in a really, super, extra good thing? I guess not. Sometimes good things are better separately than combined. I love strawberry Jello salad and pickles, for example, but that doesn’t mean I put pickles IN my strawberry Jello salad. Such is my thinking about musicals – great live theater can tell a story powerfully, dance has the power to be profoundly moving, and I simply can’t imagine life without music – but put them together and it’s like somebody puked strawberry pickle Jello salad all over the stage. Not good.
It isn’t like I haven’t given musicals a chance. I’ve seen many over the years, each time starting out with an open mind and genuinely trying to enjoy the experience. No such luck. Phantom put me to sleep. Les Miserables made me miserable. Little Shop of Horrors was more than a little horrifying. I even went to a musical on Broadway in New York City once, thinking maybe if I saw one in the Mecca of Musicals, I’d finally “get it.” It didn’t work. Because I refused to pay full price, I picked from the half-price ticket options. Aida seemed like a good bet. I figured it couldn’t be too bad with music written by Elton John. Who can resist Rocket Man, with his over-the-top outfits, wacky glasses and catchy tunes? I don’t remember the story line of Aida – something about doomed lovers being buried alive. I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me want to sing and dance more than the thought of being buried alive! I don’t remember much more than that, partly because I was traumatized by severe boredom and partly because I spent the entire production squinting through the darkness at the program, counting down how many musical numbers were left like they were particularly difficult reps at the gym . . . “OK, Ronda, be strong, 13 down, 12 to go! Come on, you can do it!” The only live musical theater event I’ve ever remotely enjoyed was the musical thriller “Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street.” There is just something satisfying about the combination of song, dance and vicious, bloody murder.
It’s difficult to describe what musicals do to me. You know how awful it is when you feel embarrassed for someone? They’re making an ass of themselves or failing miserably in front of tons of people and you actually wish you could crawl under a rock for them. Well, that’s how I feel when I watch musicals. I know that doesn’t make sense. Professionally produced musicals feature people who are incredibly skilled and talented. The production is a result of hours of rehearsal. I know this and I appreciate the talents of not only the performers, but the set designers, costume people, choreographers, lighting designers and everyone else involved. All impressive and yet . . . no matter how well executed, people breaking into cheesy song and dance numbers seems so painfully awkward. Nobody does that in real life. You don’t get back to your desk after a particularly frustrating meeting and sing a show tune complete with Fosse jazz-hand choreography to explain it to your co-workers. No, you simply roll your eyes and tell them in great detail how it took every ounce of energy you had to keep from lunging across the table and violently beating the bleeping bleep out of that bleeping passive-aggressive bleep who makes getting anything done bleepity-bleeping impossible. Let’s face it - life is more Quentin Tarantino dialogue than Andrew Lloyd Webber song.
So, my best guess as to why musicals are so cringe-inducing for me is how ridiculously unrealistic they are. Let me be even more specific: I don’t mind unrealistic situations – I’m able to suspend belief for story’s sake and allow all sorts of improbable things to occur. What I can’t stand is unrealistic behaviors. I can pretend it’s possible for someone to save the world by jumping out of an exploding helicopter, landing in a car that happens to shoot missiles and chasing down bad guy aliens that have switched faces with unsuspecting school children. What I can’t tolerate is if this hero randomly breaks into song and dance while he or she is doing it. I mean, you’d definitely save the world from aliens if you could, right? But who would sing a peppy song at the same time? That’s not just ridiculous, it’s embarrassingly ridiculous!
To make matters more complicated and confusing, I actually occasionally enjoy musical movies. Occasionally is the operative word, and the ones I like are typically Disney animated films. I like Sebastian the Crab telling me in song how much better life is under the sea. My son and I rock out to the jazz classic “Everybody Wants to be a Cat” from The Aristocats. And those little mice singing “Cinderelly, Cinderelly, Cinderelly . . .” are simply adorable.
In the non-animated musical movie category, I must confess to loving Grease. Maybe it’s the hand jive or that surreal scene when Frankie Avalon descends from the “malt shop in the sky” as Teen Angel. More likely, it’s that bitchin’ car, Greased Lightning. I must be one of those girls who’s a sucker for a hot car, because I definitely get a little excited when I hear, “Well this car is automatic . . . it’s systematic . . . it’s hyyyyyyyyydromatic. Why it’s Greased Lightnin’!” And I can’t help being amused when a car is described in song as a “real pussy wagon.” Best of all is Olivia Newton John’s transformation from boring goodie-two shoes Sandy to bad-ass sexpot Sandy. What a pair of tight black pants and red high heels can’t do for a girl! As much as I love the campy film version of Grease, I find the live stage version as wince-worthy as any other musical. Maybe the unrealistic song and dance behavior doesn’t bother me as much on screen because the characters don’t seem as real. Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta are about as real as an animated red Trinidadian crab with a Caribbean accent or talking mice that can sew a ball gown. And everybody knows cartoon characters can get away with anything. Wile E. Coyote has proved that time and time again. If he can keep chasing Road Runner after being blown up by dynamite and squished by giant boulders, a cartoon character can definitely pull off singing and dancing in inappropriate situations without coming across as ridiculous. Real live humans can’t do either.
Apparently hating musicals is hereditary because my son seems to have inherited my disdain for the genre. (This is why I’ve recently come to suspect a missing gene as the culprit.) I must point out it isn’t that young Chester can’t sit through a performance. Quite the contrary, he regularly sits, with rapt attention, through theater, music and dance performances. I’ve been toting him along to all sorts of performing arts events since he was a baby.
I recently accompanied Chester’s preschool class on a field trip to see a live musical production of Sleeping Beauty. (My agreeing to chaperone this particular field trip should be taken as evidence of my extreme, unwavering love for the little guy and proof that I would, in fact, do ANYTHING for him.) He loves the classic Disney version and is particularly transfixed by the scary awfulness of Maleficent, Mistress of All Evil. (He always asks with wide-eyed fascination, “What are those things on her head, Mommy?” My answer is that the two large twisted horn-like features atop Maleficent’s villainous cape are intended to evoke fear by calling to mind the evil of the devil. This is my theory. A good one, I think.
Maleficent - "Mistress of All Evil"
I’m equally fascinated by Maleficent and, although I don’t get into this with Chester, I'm mesmerized because her attire looks like a darkly, exquisitely beautiful piece from an Alexander McQueen runway show.)
Alexander McQueen Fall 2009
Alexander McQueen "Eclect Dissect" Fall 1997
Anyway, my big fear was that Chester would not appreciate a different version of Sleeping Beauty than the one he has become accustomed to and that he would be particularly annoyed with this version’s “Bad Fairy” who clearly wasn’t up to “Mistress of All Evil” snuff. He tends to get things in his head a certain way and nothing else will do. As it turned out, I didn’t need to worry – at least not about that.
As I sat with the 4 and 5 year olds waiting for the show to begin, I could tell excitement was mounting. Just about every 20 seconds, one of them would ask, “How much longer until it starts NOW, Chester’s Mommy?” At long last, the lights dimmed and the show began. It didn’t take long for the cast to break into song. Chester squirmed. Chester furrowed his brow. Chester looked uncomfortable and said, in his loudest whisper, “Mommy, I want them to stop singing.” I shushed him. The next musical number came along and Chester sighed loudly, “Mommy, I DON’T like these singing parts.” “I know, buddy, neither do I.” “When are they going to STOP?” “Soon. They’ll stop soon.” (Not soon enough, but what was I supposed to say?) By the time the next song came along, Chester wasn’t even bothering to whisper anymore, “Mommy! They’re singing AGAIN! When is it going to be over?!” I felt his pain and did my best to encourage him (and myself) to overcome the disability of the missing musical gene, “Be strong, just a few more. You can do it!”
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